


By Any Other Name

by EchoSilverWolf



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All the fluffs, Background Mystrade, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Canon Compliant, Developing Relationship, Developing parentlock, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, John Watson Returns to Baker Street, John and Rosie move back to Baker Street, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Major Character Injury, POV Alternating, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Episode: s04e03 The Final Problem, Rosie is a real character-not a plot device baby, Sherlock is a Good Parent, Sherlock is a good friend, Toddler Rosie Watson, Virgin Sherlock, slight angst, slight whump, smutty fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-09-24 07:11:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 26,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9710366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf
Summary: After rebuilding 221B, John and Rosie move back in with Sherlock. Sherlock tries to make life easier for John as a single parent.A shared love of John's daughter slowly brings the two to finally admit to secrets they've both kept for far too long.Lots of fluff. Developing relationship.  Developing ParentLock.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check out art for this chapter here 
> 
> https://echosilverwolf.tumblr.com/post/160072274743/beautiful-art-work-for-chapter-one-of-by-any-other

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Betaed by englandwouldfalljohn(theladyamalthea)
> 
> She is why I am writing. 
> 
> Thank you, my friend, for all the help, ideas, editing, and late night on-line giggle fests that have become part of my life. 
> 
> The John to my Sherlock. More important to my life than she probably knows, and "pretty damn smart" <3

 

 

Sherlock hears her the moment she wakes.

He has been growing accustomed to her different sounds over the baby monitor in the sitting room. Like the sniffly whimper right now that has about 1 minute and 42 seconds until it becomes a full blown wail. He glances at the clock. Barely 6 am. They had been up late the night before putting the finishing touches on the kitchen. Weeks of rebuilding the flat are finally complete, and aside from being 100% cleaner, one would never know it had exploded.

 John and Rosie had stayed over more times than not due to late hours and exhaustion, so it really came as no surprise when, two weeks ago, he had finally asked to come back to stay. He had been so uncertain. He was afraid. Afraid Sherlock wouldn't want him back, or wouldn’t welcome the added baggage of having a near toddler in the already tiny flat.

 As if he would ever say no to John...or to the little blue eyed curly blonde that he can't deny has wiggled her way into his life and his heart as well.

A wondrous intriguingly beautiful little piece of John. How could he not love her as much as he loves...

 He stops that thought abruptly - pushes it aside. _Those_ are things that stay below the surface. Things that are a bit not good.

He has them back in his life. The flat feels like a home again.  Dare he say, they feel like an odd little family of sorts. That will have to be enough.  He isn't about to ruin that with his   _feelings_. Especially ones he knows would not be reciprocated.

 Another soft whimper over the monitor. And John's snoring. He makes his way up the stairs, carefully avoiding the squeaky one, and slowly peeks his head into John's room.

 He does this alot. More than John knows. John thinks she sleeps thru the night most nights. But really, since he doesn't sleep much anyway many nights, he goes up to get the teary little girl before her soft cries can turn loud enough to wake her father.

 He has become quite adept at quick nappy changes and bottles in the middle of the night. Then he puts her right back down to sleep, allowing his friend the rest he knows he needs after all that has happened in recent months. Doing what he can so John doesn't have to do this alone.

 He really doesn't mind. Having never touched an infant by choice before, he finds he rather enjoys the quiet moments at night. Her soft sighs and sleepy weight as she drifts off, warm, against him, usually with a chubby hand curled around one of his fingers. Something he never could have imagined being anything but tedious, he finds to be surprisingly  calming and even a bit endearing.  

 Rosie’s whimpers turn into a giggle and a pointed pudgy finger as he pokes his head around the door and takes one large step over to her portable cot. With a finger to his lips and soft shushing sounds, he swoops back out and down the stairs with her and her travel bag, casting a quick, wistful glance at his sleeping flatmate as he goes.

 ******** 

John wakes to the sound of laughter. Baby laughter. The big air gulping belly laugh that only very small children seem able to make.

 He smiles in his sleepy half-awake state and glances at the clock. 9:05 am. He slept late. Rosie never stays quiet this long. He rolls over to see what she is laughing at, but realizes the sound is far away. Not in the room. Her cot is empty, and the laughing is coming from downstairs.

 Quickly tossing on a t-shirt, he makes his way toward the hic coughing laughter coming from the kitchen.

 Rosie is in her high chair. Cut up bananas and cereal on the tray, but she is not focused at all on her food.

 Bright eyes wide, she holds her breath until… up pops _the skull_ to the side of her seat and she dissolves again into hysterical laughter. The skull disappears for a second and another held breath before reappearing on the other side to clapping and even more squealing. He catches the sound of a deeper baritone laugh as well and chances a glance below her chair.

 Sherlock Holmes. The world's only consulting detective. Sitting cross-legged under the table, playing with his 1 year old. Not just playing, but _laughing_ with her. Engaging in a game belonging just to the two of them.

 Smiling to himself, he leans against the wall to watch this adorable absurdity that is his life now for a few more minutes before his daughter looks over and finally sees him.

 “DA!”

 She points to John, dissolving back into giggles. Trying to breathe around laughter hiccups.

A dark disarray of curls pokes up from under the kitchen table and Sherlock  flashes him a genuine smile and a “Good morning, John!”

As if there is not one thing out of place about him sitting on the cold new linoleum playing peekaboo with a skull as a puppet.  


	2. Chapter 2

John blinks in the darkness, straining to see the clock. 2:37 am.

Deciding to get up for some water, he glances over to check on his sleeping daughter, and panic hits his chest. The cot is empty. Fear slams into him and he’s about to shout out to Sherlock when awareness dawns that the light from downstairs is on and soft music is playing.

He takes the stairs quickly but quietly, not exactly sure what was happening, the fear gradually dissipating with the realization that his daughter is most likely with Sherlock and not kidnapped. He enters the sitting room, only one lamp on and the stereo playing calming violin music.

No sounds. No movement. Where...OH.

The sofa. Sherlock angled to the corner but stretched out, one leg on, one leg off the couch. On his chest sprawled just as haphazardly is a softly snoring Rosamund. Drooling a bit and with one hand curled into the collar of Sherlock’s dressing gown. One of his long arms holding her safely in place, even as he slept.

A half empty bottle on the floor. A folded dirty nappy off to the side.  

John's heart, which had finally slowed from the original panic of a missing baby, now threatening to climb up into his throat and choke him with emotion.

The monitor which was normally on the mantle is next to the sofa, leading John to believe he had been _listening_ during the night. He had gotten up with her. Changed her. Fed her. And apparently tried to put her back to sleep. Resulting in this picture of parental domesticity currently residing on the sofa.

That old feeling of affection washes over him. The one he had boxed up and hidden away, had closed the door on and ignored, is pushing its way back out at the sight of his best friend caring for his daughter as if she was his own. Normally he would shove those feelings back again. What use were they? Loving someone who couldn't reciprocate that feeling? He should be happy with where he was. Back where it felt like a home. In this strange new semblance of normal. One in which, apparently, his not so sociopathic flatmate also does midnight feedings and nappy changes so John can sleep.  

He grabs the blanket off his own chair and quietly slips over to the sleeping pair, draping it to cover the two of them.

Sherlock’s face softens and Rosie sighs. Neither moves.

John switches off the light and grabs the Union Jack pillow and another blanket and curls into his own chair, watching the pair sleep peacefully across the room. Letting those hidden feelings have a bit of freedom before putting them away again and drifting off as well.

********

Sherlock opens his eyes...well, more specifically, has one of them pried open by tiny fingers accompanied by a little squeal of happy baby noises. He pushes her hand away gently and ruffles her little sleep flattened curls.

Then it hits him.

 _Damn it!_ He fell asleep. Downstairs. With John's daughter. _Damn it!_

He starts to gather up Rosie in hopes of returning her to her cot before John notices. Then notices the blanket over them both. That hadn't been there before.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees him, still sleeping curled into his arm chair. Facing them.

His brain shifts into overdrive.

_Ok. So he knows. He knows AND he stayed down here with us. Why? Why not wake me? Take the baby? Confront me about why I moved her without permission?_

He hated admitting that he was a bit panicked. He did all this for John, yes, but he never meant him to find out. Yet now he has. Now there will need to be explanations and talking and things they aren't very good at.

Rising slowly so as to not wake John anytime sooner than necessary, he takes Rosie to the kitchen to start some tea.

He flinches when a tiny shrill voice yells “Da!” over his shoulder as she spots her father.

John opens his eyes and smiles.  He stretches and stands up, moving toward them.

“Well. Good morning to you too!” he says leaning forward to kiss her round baby cheek, his hand falling to rest on his obviously nervous friend’s arm.  Giving it a pat that lingers a bit longer than necessary, he flashes him an affectionate smile and adds only,“Thank you, Sherlock. Tea?”  as he moves past them into the kitchen.


	3. Chapter 3

It's been a long day. A long case with a lot of running. Sherlock knows they are both tired but too hyped to go to bed.

He has a decent fire lit by the time John returns from Mrs. Hudson’s and putting Rosie down to sleep. While waiting, he goes and finds the whiskey and two glasses. He can't remember the last time they sat and had drinks. Probably not since John's stag do.

Instead of his chair, when John returns he sets himself down on the floor in front of the fireplace and stretches out.

Sherlock hands him his glass and their fingers brush slightly in the exchange, sending a small shiver through him which he sincerely hopes the other man did not notice. 

“Ta,” John replies, giving him a lopsided smile. “Good night for a drink.”

Sherlock nods and averts his attention to the fire.

They sit in silence for a bit just sipping their drinks.

In his mind he has so many things he could say to fill the silence, yet afraid if he opens his mouth too much of his new found vulnerable side will show. They are very rarely alone like this anymore, without Rosie or a case to distract them.

This closeness seems almost dangerous as his thoughts battle to betray him. It is a companionable silence, but strained, with something bubbling just under the surface that needs to stay contained.

In the end, he doesn't need to be the one to break the quiet.  

*****

John stares into his glass for a while. He has been waiting for a time like this to broach the topic, the situation he knows he needs to rectify.

He looks up at Sherlock in his chair above him and catches his eye. John pats the floor beside him and chances it.

“Hey...um... join me?”

His friend raises an eyebrow inquisitively but nods and slides himself onto the rug a few inches from John's side, facing him.

John takes a breath and looks down at his hands.

_May as well just get on with it,_ He thinks, setting his drink to the side.  

“I'm sorry, Sherlock.” he mumbles into his lap. 

“John?” comes the confused reply.

“For what I did...after Mary. The note. The distance...mostly for,” he swallows past the sick feeling in his throat, “the morgue...lashing out. Hurting you. It was sickening what I did to you.”

A hand reaches out and settles hesitantly on his knee.

A moment passes before a deep voice, full of more empathy than he knew it could offer, answered slowly,

“John. Do you really think I care so little for our friendship that I could not forgive you for being human?”

And John felt the sting behind his eyes. He laid his hand atop his flatmate’s.

“I don't deserve forgiveness, Sherlock - but thank you.”

“Wrong, John,” Sherlock retorts, then adds in a softer tone, “I believe, sometimes, we all deserve a little more forgiveness than we think.”  

The hand on his knee gives a quick squeeze and pulls away, and John immediately misses the warmth. Tucking the memory away in the box of things in his mind that need to stay hidden.

As they sit in the stillness of the mostly darkened flat, it is Sherlock this time that breaks the quiet.

He begins to talk. About the past, and about cases. About bees. About more recent events. About his plans to visit Eurus. They spend the next few hours in alcohol induced conversation. Real, open conversation. Serious and silly. Until the words run out and they are both yawning from intoxication and tiredness.

John pushes himself unsteadily off the floor, reaching a hand to help his best friend.

As he begins to head for the steps he stops and turns to the other man, touching his shoulder just barely to get his attention.

“Sh’lock, why do we never do this?” he gestures his hand between them and around the sitting room.

The reply is a confused and slurred “W-what? Drink?” followed by a deep drunken laugh.

“Because we are hideous lightweights, John! Neither one of…” he stops chuckling when he sees the more serious look on his friend’s face.

John gives him a smile he hasn't used in a long time.

“Talk. We...we never... just _talk_ like that. S’ nice. Should do it more often,” he replies, valiantly trying to be sure his voice stays light and free of the emotions he barely has a handle on in the haze of intoxication.

His friend’s eyes soften and he returns the smile as he answers, “I am not adverse to that idea, John.”

To his own shock, John finds himself pulling the man into a half hug without thinking.

“Thank you again - for letting us move back here, back _home,_ ” he says, before quickly releasing him and heading unsteadily for his room.

He misses the deep, slightly unsteady voice behind him whisper,

"It wasn't one when you were gone".


	4. Chapter 4

“Sherlock, you’ll be _fine!”_ John runs his hand through his hair in exasperation at his flatmate’s dramatics.

The detective is pacing like a caged animal, stepping over furniture and walking the floor with a nervous agitation that John is seriously concerned might leave an imprint in the carpet.

“There are a multitude of unpleasant variables and outcomes, John. Too many to even predict!  I don't see why you can't just…”

“There’s _no one_ else, Sherlock. Just you. Please? I need you. I need _you_ to do this for me.”

John knows he is aggressively pushing him into uncomfortable territory, but he really is desperate.

“You know everything you need to. You can tell me if something feels wrong. You. Will. Be. Fine. Who knows? You may even _enjoy_ it.” 

John is riding him hard, but at the moment he just needs him to say yes.

Sherlock stops at the window and lets out a frustrated sigh.

“Fine, John. I will. It is just...what if I can't do it? What if i make a mistake?”

The poor man looks truly terrified and John can't help but find it adorable.

“It’s babysitting, Sherlock. It isn't hard. Besides, you’re great with her and she adores you. I can't imagine her being safer with anyone than you, and being that both Molly and Mrs. Hudson are busy, I really don't have another option at the moment. A&E is down three doctors and they’re swamped. It's just the mid shift. 3 to 11. Just eight hours. You can handle this!”

Sherlock nods, and John passes Rosie over to him.

“Text me or call the hospital if you need me. Really this _isn't_ a big deal. Nothing you haven't done when I'm here too.”

Seeing the uncertainty still lingering on his friend's face, he rests a reassuring hand on his arm.

“Play with her. Change her. Feed her. Read some books. Watch a movie. Put her to bed. It's simple. I promise, you’ll be fine. She’ll be fine. Stop overthinking this!”

He checks his watch.

“I've really gotta go. Seriously, Sherlock, I trust you! You've got this!”

He grabs his coat and hurries down the steps and out of the flat before his flatmate can argue.

*****

Sherlock stares out the window at John crossing the street, then at the wiggly almost-toddler in his arms.

Though flattered at John's trust in him, he truly is terrified. Eight hours of being solely in charge of the safety and happiness of the _most_ important thing in John's life, not to mention that thing is a living breathing little person. It is unnerving.

Rosie tugs at his hair, snapping him out of his thoughts.

He smiles at those dark blue eyes with the hint of gold, so very much like John's.

“Well then, little bee. What should we do now?”

Rosie gives him a serious face before breaking into a wide grin as she sticks her tongue out at him and blows raspberries in his face.

Sherlock laughs loudly, wiping his eye with his sleeve, “ _You_ , my dear, are most _definitely_ a Watson.”

She giggles in reply, then points to her toys, repeating “dat dat dat” while squirming to get down.

He puts her on the carpet, sitting down with her, and begins building a tower of blocks - one which she knocks down halfway through about a dozen times.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Beautiful sketch of Sherlock cuddled up with Rosie
> 
> http://manuvampy-blog.tumblr.com/post/162014035291/sleeping-sherlock-and-baby-rosie-sherlock
> 
> Thank you for letting me use your art!!

John gets home a little late, shutting the door as gently as possible behind him before heading up the steps to the darkened flat. Only the soft glow from the telly lights the room - some documentary on penguins. 

He glances over to the sofa where his flatmate is wrapped in a blanket, with a sleeping Rosie cuddled up tightly against him. Eyes closed, his head nestled in her wispy baby curls.

The sight is downright precious.

Not wanting to startle his friend or wake his daughter, he moves around slowly and eases onto the sofa, sliding in thigh to thigh with Sherlock.

The detective lifts his head and smiles while John reaches over to stroke one of his daughter's tiny hands, then lowers his eyes again to the sleeping infant on his chest.

“John?” comes a low, thoughtful whisper.

He looks up at his friend who has the most un-Sherlock expression on his face as he stares at the sleeping child. Fondness mixed with confusion and a bit of... sadness?

“Why does it  _ hurt  _ to feel so much for someone?” The question is thick with emotion. “I...I don't have experience. I don't understand…” he shakes his head, sighs and starts again.

“She isn't mine. She and I share no biological bond. She is not part of me at all. Why do I...why do I  _ love _ her, John...so much that it hurts?” He raises his head and his eyes search his friend’s face for answers.  

He stares at Sherlock, the self proclaimed sociopath, the man who has spent years saying caring is not an advantage, who is now cradling his child and admitting to a parental type of love. It nearly breaks him. In the few years since they’d met, the man had already come so far, but the situation with his sister seems to have torn down the remaining walls that had held him back from realizing his capacity for expressing emotions.  

John shakes his head, unsure how to answer. Still lost in the steady gaze of the man next to him, he tries his best:

“Ya, it does. I s’pose maybe loving someone that much isn't supposed to make sense? It just...well, is what it is.”

Sherlock's eyes never leave his. Holding him with a searching look, full of curiosity and something else John can't quite put a name to.

Before he can even realise whats happening, Sherlock shifts Rosie’s weight to his other side and leans into him, laying his head against his shoulder. Not saying a word, as if this is just something they do.

Soft curls tickle John's face as the younger man nestles into his jumper.

His heart jolts and begins to hammer so loudly he is sure it is audible. This is...new. This is...he really has no idea  _ what _ this is.

He hesitantly raises his arm and lays it lightly around his best friend's shoulder, and, without realising he is even doing so, smooths an errant  curl from his forehead.

They both remain quiet. Just allowing this closeness.

John is beyond unsure of what to say or if he should even try to talk. Not wanting to disturb this moment, seeing the man look more human than he has ever seen him. Not wanting to humiliate or spook him. Also, with all his being, not wanting him to move away, regardless of how this is testing his resolve to keep his true feelings hidden away in their box, to keep himself from doing or saying something to jeopardize what they already have.

  
Sherlock sighs at the touch of John's hand on his forehead, but remains otherwise silent and focused straight ahead. Still cradling Rosie on his free side. After a few moments, John reaches for the remote and shuts the TV off as the credits roll on the documentary.  Leaving the three of them with only the glow of outside lights, wrapped together in the dark on the sofa.   


	6. Chapter 6

He isn't sure _why_ he did it. All he knows is he is touching John and John has yet to pull away. In fact, he has put his arm around him - touched his face even.

 It doesn't mean anything. Unless...it does? He has no experiences of his own in these matters to draw on here.

  _Need more information_.

 Not used to his actions moving ahead of his brain, his mind now is in hyperdrive.

  _What happens next_?

 He is sure some line is now being crossed. His actions are more than a friendly show of affection, yet less than what he wants them to be.

 John seems nervous - he can hear the man’s heart pounding in his ear - and his breathing has sped up exponentially. However, for a man who has vehemently denied any interest in men, he seems not to mind having his arm wrapped around his very male flatmate. In the dark.

  _Too many variables. Not enough facts._

 The hand on his shoulder is now absently tracing small circles over his sleeve, sending little shivers down his spine.

 He anxiously cocks his head up to face his friend, only to find him looking back with a soft but unrecognizable something in the gaze.  

  _What happens now? Do I talk? Touch? Can't just stare...need more information. Need. Need more. Need...more...John._

 He is shite at this and it is unnerving.

 His mind desperately searches for the correct way to navigate the situation, but is shorting out with John's eyes focused solely on his, with the gentle touch on his arm.

 He pulls his other arm, the one not still cradling Rosie, out from between them and lightly rests his hand on John's knee. Like the night by the fire. Eyes still locked. Watching for a reaction to his touch.

  _This is safe._

 It's too dark to observe much, but he can see enough to notice John's eyes. Sapphire and gold irises are now just a halo around wide inky pupils.

  _Pupils dilated. Arousal or emotion? Heart rate erratic - anxiety? Hand has stopped moving, is firm but now still. Eyes still focused on mine. Isn't pulling away. Nervous smile? Need more information._

 The air suddenly feels thick and everything is too much.

  _Too much and not enough. Want more. What if I pushed too far? We are so close... THINK!! What's the point of a sodding mind palace if it shuts down when you need it most?!_

 He wishes he had at least some of John's knowledge or experience with these things to draw from right now. His heightened awareness of John's hand holding him in place and the warmth of their bodies touching is all-consuming .

  _If it's too much will he move? Will things be awkward? He might leave. I would be alone. NO. Not again... But...what if...I have wanted this for so long...has he? Does he know? Do I try? Distance of 4 inches. Close the gap? Take the chance? THINK!_

 John's eyes never waver, as he slips his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to the pulse point in his neck. A soft brush of two fingers trace over his carotid, lingering for a few seconds as he watches his flatmate's face. Sherlock shivers and knows this time he had to have felt _and_ seen it.

  _Wait!_ _Is he? He is taking my pulse!!_

 For all the years of his blogger missing the simplest deductions, this is one time he doesn't.

  _My pulse: tachycardic, eyes are surely dilated. Oh! OH! Clever, clever John! You do pay attention..._

 The hand on his neck slides upwards under his jaw, letting his thumb trace slowly across the detective's face.

  _Two inches? Who moved closer? Close the gap?  Can't. Can't move. Need...this. Afraid. .  Panic. Panic. Want... John._

 He feels his own heartbeat racing now, skipping wildly, as all ability to think rationally cruelly abandons him.

  _Chemical defect. Can't think…OH!_

 The thumb against his face,  tracing his jawline, stops. Two strong fingers under his chin. Tilting.

 John is the one to cross the remaining space between them, with the lightest touch of lips on his.  Barely brushing, hesitant but not pulling back. Like a question without words.

 He finds himself instinctively pressing back, though cautiously. Not his first kiss technically, but the first one that actually matters. The first one that is _real_ . That means something...that means _everything_.

 John pulls back, just slightly, face soft, eyes searching his...for affirmation? Permission?

  _Need…this. Need you. John. My John._

  _****_

John keeps their eyes locked, waiting, allowing Sherlock the chance to move them forward now - and he does - awkwardly seeking out John's mouth. Once again, just the softest brush of lips as they touch, but this time John pushes back into him slightly harder. Pressing them together. Darting his tongue out and slowly sliding it along the edges of his friend’s mouth. Seeking acceptance.

  _Oh! He has never done this - and he is so adorably unsure!_

 The detective catches on after a second and parts his lips slightly, angling his face to the side as he allows John to push forward. He leans further into the kiss, sliding one hand up into those mussed up curls, gently tangling his fingers in them, giving soft tugs - something he has wanted to do for as long as he can remember. He slides his tongue against teeth, across the roof of his mouth. Drags it along lips before another, more hesitant one finally joins in and begins to move and tangle around his own.

 John catches it with his teeth, carefully grazing them over it, and a barely audible whimper is loosed against his mouth. It’s all the affirmation John needs.

 John smiles against Sherlock's lips at the sound and deepens the kiss ever so slightly.

 A moment turns to minutes. Maybe hours. John loses track of any sense of time.

 It’s gentle. And innocent. One uncertain but curious, the other patiently teaching. Neither pushing too far or too fast. A slow give and take. Years of locked doors and boxed up emotions being opened wordlessly in this moment.

A beginning, John thinks, to something that has been building since a morning at St. Barts so very long ago.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am feeling chapter generous:)  
> Two in one day!  
> Enjoy <3

He wakes as the pillow beneath him shifts. No. Not a pillow. John. 

_ John _ . _ John. John. _

He is lying half across John's lap, the man's arm draped protectively over his shoulders, and somehow Rosie is now sleeping against John's other side.

_ We fell asleep. We were kissing. We fell asleep kissing. Together. We Are Sleeping Together. We kissed. John didn't leave. _

John is asleep, upright, in what can not at all be a comfortable position. He realizes he must have fallen asleep first for John to have moved the baby without him knowing, then stayed sitting like that to hold them both.

_ We kissed. John kissed first. John's mouth. John's tongue. John stayed.  Will this be awkward? What happens next? Things will change. Will John regret this? A moment in which we got carried away? John's not gay. Is he? Was it a fluke? Something more? It feels like more. What if it's not? Can't hide anymore. Can't take it back. Don't want to. So many feelings… _

He shakes away the torrent of thoughts bombarding his sleep addled brain.  

John's arm around him tightens  slightly, almost protectively, and he sighs in his sleep, the touch slowing Sherlock's brain down somewhat. His eyes still sleep heavy, he decides whatever tomorrow brings he at least has this moment, lying here with the only two people he has ever truly left his heart open to. He puts his head back down and reaches across John, gently entwining his fingers into the hand holding Rosie, then drifting back to sleep.

******

John smiles down at his lap full of quietly snoring detective and waking toddler. The moment is so surreal it almost makes him laugh. He can't remember ever waking up to something so perfect. His stiff back is a small price to pay for this.  Sherlock's hand is laced into his. Not sure when that happened, but the warmth and weight of it make it feel as though it belongs there. Has always belonged there. 

Rosie reaches down to pat their joined hands.

“DA!” she giggles. Then, “Sh Sh.”

John smiles and puts a finger to his lips in a “be quiet” gesture.

“Yea Love, shhh...quiet”

She giggles again. Shakes her head no, little curls bouncing.

“Shhh shhh. SHH’YOCK!” she all but shouts, and then erupts into a fit of giggles.

John can't help but laugh with her as a sleep ruffled head jerks up off his leg, bleary crystalline eyes startled and confused. Sherlock looks downright panicked as he starts to push himself up off John's lap, but is stopped by a hand carding through his hair.

“Stay?” John whispers coaxingly, and Sherlock, still looking unsure, nods and scoots  over,sitting nearly upright against John's side, head still resting against him.

John needs him to know it wasn't a mistake. That things are ok - better than ok. That things aren't weird. That things are normal. 

He needs him to know that he  _ wants  _ this _.  _ He needs to know if  _ Sherlock  _ wants this _.  _ He needs to be the soldier for his skittish friend who looks terrified and ready to bolt.

“She said your name, Sherlock. Just now,” he says, proudly looking at his daughter.

“She... _ MY _ name?” He blinks sleep from his eyes and looks to Rosie.

“Told you she adores you,” John answers with a smile, still deftly running his hand over his friend’s hair, almost petting, as Sherlock  arches into the touch like a cat.

Rosie chooses to verify her newfound vocal talent by reaching for him with both hands and giving another giggled “shhhh’yock!”

John has never seen the man's eyes crinkle up into a smile like the one that lights up his face in response to this. He looks to John, who nods and hands her over.

“Shh’yock Shh’yock!” she repeats, as he takes her and bounces her on his leg.

“Hey there my little bee,” the detective all but whispers, his face still cracking in that absolutely gorgeous smile as he presses his nose to hers in a playful nuzzle.  

It is the most beautiful sight John can imagine.

He pushes himself up off the couch and flashes a cocky grin at his flatmate.

“Looks like YOU get diaper duty! I'll  make us a proper breakfast.” He heads for the kitchen, ducking just in time to avoid a hit from the pillow being tossed at him.

“Oi!” he turns, winking at the  smirking detective, “that's not good ‘morning after’ behavior!” he laughs before putting the kettle on.


	8. Chapter 8

“Ungrateful _wankers_!” John grumbles, the two of them making their way up the 17 stairs to their flat.

“Could’a solved the damn thing if you had just _told_ them we were coming!” he huffs in agitation.

“If I had alerted them, unnecessary attention would have arisen. Thus, breaking in was the only logical…” comes the response from the landing above

“ _That_ was not bloody logical, Sherlock!” John interrupts. “ _Considering_ there would be security after a robbery - _that_ would’a been logical!”

“Yes. Well. Minor miscalculation,” the detective says as he hangs his coat. Then, turning to flash a lopsided smile at his blogger, “At least we escaped the dogs! Even if they did try to eat you, John.”

“Sodding dogs didn't try to eat me, you arse...they tried to eat my coat,” he mutters to the floor as he takes off his mud covered shoes.

“Almost ate you, John,” he playfully repeats. “I told you not to bring that repulsive package of dried meat,” the detective adds with a laugh.

“Jerky, Sherlock. It’s called jerky. Also, like hell you said that.”

“Mmm. Quite right. I almost said that, must have been distracted,” his flatmate responds with a smirk and a wink.

“Oi. You cock!” But there is no anger behind it and he laughs loudly.

“Bloody dogs,” John muses through lilting giggles. “They sicced bloody _german shepherds_ on us. _That's_ a new one for the blog!”

“Will you be mentioning, Doctor,” Sherlock interjects with a raised eyebrow and a giggle of his own, “what those dogs would have gotten a bite out of if I hadn't… _OOOF!”_  His sentence cuts off as 5’6” of solid army doctor barrels into him, tackling him onto the sofa mid-sentence. They wrestle a bit until John knocks him backwards while falling forwards - the both of them landing in a tangled heap of limbs and laughter.

John collects himself first, noticing the position they’ve gotten themselves in.  A week ago this would have been horribly awkward, but after that night a bit over 2 days ago, his reaction to the idea of being sprawled on top of his friend like this is a bit...changed.

Sherlock catches his breath a second later and by the expression on his face, also notices the...arrangement. He looks almost shy, and John can see he is still a bit unsure whether this is ok.

John saves him the trouble of over thinking by offering a coy whisper. “ Hmm... This seems a bit familiar. I think we left off here,” and leaning forward, presses their lips firmly together.

Sherlock immediately pushes up into the kiss, a little more sure of himself this time, bringing his hands up into John's hair to pull him in harder, lips parting to allow John’s tongue a full assault on that beautiful mouth. 

The first night on the sofa was slow and innocent; this time it is all heat and need. Wet, wanting kisses. A struggle for dominance. John on top but Sherlock catching on quickly and vying for control.

John drags a plump lower lip through his teeth and the resulting deep rumbling moan from the man below him goes straight to his already painfully hard cock, now pressed noticeably against a growing firmness below him.

Sherlock's eyes go wide and he attempts to shift his hips to the side. Away.

John sees the panic. The impulsiveness of the moment slowing down as it dawns on him.

He slows down, placing little comforting kisses to his friend's ( _partner's?)_ mouth and face before meeting his eyes.

“You...you've never done any of this before, have you?” he asks carefully.

“Being an adamantly _straight_ man, I would counter with ‘neither have you’...” came a weak, embarrassed, reply.

“Well, I guess we both know that line wasn't completely true, yeah?” he jokes in return, trying to lighten the moment

Sherlock smiles.

“I suppose I never considered ‘not gay’ to imply ‘also not straight’. One more failed deduction. It’s always something, John,”  he counters, pressing back when John kisses him slowly again.

“How about <kiss> we try this <kiss> again...together <kiss> figure it out <kiss> _together._ ” And with that, John slides downward to lightly suck at the spot just below Sherlock's jaw.

He grins at the broken whine and stuttered response issuing beneath him:

“Y-yes please.”


	9. Chapter 9

_Yes. Please. Jawwwn._

His insecurity fading with every pass of John's finger tracing his ear, his lips on his jaw and grazing over his neck, his other hand slowly popping several buttons open to expose his pale chest. Working that mouth over his clavicle and down, John seems quite content at finding each new place that causes his breath to hitch. He can feel his blogger smile against him every time he lets out any of the embarrassing little noises he finds himself unable to control.

He runs his own hands through silver-blonde hair, tugging slightly to pull John back up to meet his mouth again - earning him a throaty growl- this time allowing himself to more fully explore John with a messy tangling of their tongues.

He experiments with sucking at it in little spurts, loving each sharp inhale it draws from his friend's mouth.

The liquid heat of arousal again pooling low in his abdomen. The need for more. For touch. Friction. Sensations new to him in the presence of another person.

Sliding his lips languidly from John’s mouth to his throat, he drags his teeth against skin eliciting a long drawn out moan from his blogger,  and finally _finally_ feels the urgent press of John rolling hips into his, the incredibly hard length of him undulating against his own restrained erection.

His back arches involuntarily, thrusting back against the pressure.

“Christ! Sherlock!” John pants into his mouth, dropping his weight against Sherlock's chest. 

Sherlock grins and pushes up hard into him again causing both of them to gasp, hips stuttering, seeking more friction.

Planting both hands to the sides of the detective's face and dragging his hips slowly across Sherlock's body to align their pelvises, John begins to slide their achingly hard, still fully clothed, cocks together. First lifting  and then rolling his hips down hard, Sherlock curving his body upward to meet each charge.

The heat of John against him reducing him from words to breathy whimpers and deep guttural sounds alternating with John's name, the only coherent vocalization he can manage.

He runs his hands down from John’s hair across his back to where his jumper has been rucked up. Large hands splaying over bare skin, he  holds the man aggressively against himself, grinding up at the same time, taking control and quickening the pace to a heady rhythm of desperate rutting that fast becomes something passionate and frantic.

John's mouth collides into his, growling into him and Sherlock's whole body goes rigid and shudders, too close…too much...

“ _F-Fuck, J-Jawwwwwn!”_

Everything is white light and heat and throbbing as wave after wave of pleasure crashes over him.

Johns eyes widen at his swearing, at the delicious sound of him losing control, sending him over the edge,  and he too is groaning his own obscenities mixed with Sherlock's name - pressing and sliding them even closer together, panting into each other’s mouths as they grind through a hard, pulsating, nearly mutual climax.

Sherlock collapses back onto the arm of the sofa as John's weight falls heavy against him, both breathless and shaky.

Sherlock glances at the man lying atop him with a sudden mix of emotions he couldn't explain even if his brain wasn't completely shorted out. Instead he reaches one arm around John's shoulders, and lets his hand tenderly rest there, attempting to speak through touch.

A raspy voice against his chest answers the gesture with a breathless, “That...was bloody amazing.”  


	10. Chapter 10

“John? Wake up, John.” The deep baritone of the voice beneath him vibrates through his chest.

“Shit, Sherlock. Sorry. How long were we asleep?” Sitting up, he rubs his eyes.

“You? Two hours. Myself about 45 minutes.”

“You let me sleep on top of you for _two hours_? Why?”

Sherlock shrugs.

“You looked tired. It was fine until I lost feeling in my legs,” He replied with a pained smile. “John, it's late. We should go to bed”

“Right, yeah,” John began, a bit discouraged at the thought of going from this to sleeping alone in his room.

Pushing off his flatmate, who sits up to try and rub feeling back into his legs, John begins to head for the stairs.

“John? Where are you going?” comes a confused voice.

“You said…” he starts as he looks back at his...his...?

“Mine is closer.” Sherlock cuts in, barely audible and almost shyly, looking up at him through dark eyelashes.

 _“_ Uh...right then. Yeah.” Turning back to offer his hand, pulling Sherlock up, long fingers interlace his own as he is led down their hall into Sherlock's bedroom.  

The detective immediately goes to the dresser and begins to dig through his drawers, finally spinning to face John with a pair of gray pajama bottoms a few sizes too small... and a smile.

His eyes go wide as he stares at his bed, now occupied by a completely starkers John already nestled in.

“John? I - l...I thought you would want to theep... I mean...sleep. l…”

John's face instantly crinkles up into an affectionate smile as he lets out a huff of a laugh.

“Sherlock Holmes...did you just _lisp?_

Sherlock looks away, embarrassed.

“Happenth thometimeth...for God thake. _Sake!_ _Sometimes_!” he stammers.

“It's cute.”

“I am NOT ‘cute,’” came the petulant reply, ”and _that_ is certainly NOT cute” he mutters with a nervous frown.

“No. It _is_. It's cute. I like it. Now are you getting out of those clothes or not?”

*****

He could feel the blush hit his face.

John, comforting as ever, replies: “Sher, we don't have to do anything you don't want to, we can just sleep” Seeing his friend hesitate he added,”I can go to my room if it's too much?”

Sherlock stared for a minute. _This_ _is real. John is naked. In MY bed. I am about to be naked with_ _John in my bed…._

“Again with the staring, Sherlock. C’mon. Just get in here. S’cold.”

Slowly he comes back online, nodding as he begins fumbling with his buttons.

“C’mere.” John's voice. Commanding yet full of affection and concern as he sits up and scoots to the edge of the mattress.

He steps tentatively toward the bed and into John's space as two strong hands move his own away and slowly work their way over his buttons, pushing the open shirt off his shoulders.

His breath hitches as his friend’s hands slide across bare skin to his hips and begin work on his trousers.

He watches John's face as he is helped out of his pants and pulled forward, knees hitting the bed, into a soft, chaste kiss.

“Now get in here with me, you big git!” John chides with a grin,pulling  the duvet down as he slides over so Sherlock can slip in beside him.


	11. Chapter 11

John wakes in the dark, finding himself fully entangled in the long legs and arms of his friend (boyfriend? _lover?)._

_Who would have guessed he was such a possessive cuddler?_

 Sherlock's steady breaths are soft little huffs against his face. He stares for a few moments, marveling at how young he looks in sleep, hair a tousled mess against the pillow and dark lashes fanning his cheeks. His slender but muscular frame and near porcelain naked body only adding to the almost ethereal image.

 A deep familiar ache forms in John's chest as he reaches out to trace one of those ridiculous cheekbones with a quivering finger.

 All those unsaid hidden things suddenly clawing desperately to get out.

 So many things he had held back time and time again, and all too frequently almost lost the chance to say at all, when all along it seems _this_ was always where he was meant to end up.

 He never dared hope for this...and admittedly he is both happy and terrified.

  _This time...this time I have to say something. Take my own advice. These moments don't last forever; I'm so bloody tired of hiding it, of denying it. He obviously feels something too. We’re naked in bed together for Christ's sake!_

  _All that he's done for me. What else could it be? We've become so much...we could become so much more. He's admitted to loving Rosie. Is it such a far stretch to think those words were not only about her? What if I'm wrong? If he wants me to leave? But what if we've danced around the same feelings together all these years? Let the chances slip away so many times? No. No more. Yea, it could change everything. It could fall apart. It's a risk. If I'm wrong, we could lose so much...oh, but if I'm right...what if this time we find what we both need..._

 Sherlock sighs in his sleep and John's heart flutters in a way it hasn't ever done.

 It's him. This crazy, complicated man. It's always been him. It's been there in every too long look. Every lingering touch.  Every time his friend has put him above all else. The way a part of him died as well when he saw Sherlock fall. The same way he died inside every day for two years after. The way, even through the hurt and anger (and the complication of Mary), he felt as though world regained all its color when he came back.

The way he had felt the Earth fall out from under him again when his friend flatlined on an operating table. The way it had leaped when by some miracle that heart started itself again.

 The way his friend had suffered so much, because of him, then watched him break past his lowest point and taken him in his arms to comfort him - the first time in 7 years of friendship they had touched so intimately.

 The way he had made it clear he would choose John's life over his own.

 Now all this. The passionate, physical need for closeness - so much more than just sexual - that finally caught up to the underlying emotional hurricane raging between them for years.

There's nothing for it now but to put it to words. He isn't good at this. Neither of them are. Maybe it's time to change all that? How many more chances can fate give them? No. This time... this time it needs saying.

 He carefully slides closer to the sleeping man beside him. Places a gentle kiss into soft dark hair and leans forehead to forehead against him.

  _It has all led to this. This moment.  No more wasted chances._

Decision made, he wraps one arm affectionately around a pale bare shoulder and allows sleep to drag him back under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a shorter chapter, but this next part is something I know you all want, and it needed to be split into several parts. I will get the next, two chapters up as soon as i can!!
> 
> Also. Please read tags. There will be so much love and fluff and cuteness but tags may change and there will be explicit chapters coming as well. I hope you enjoy all aspects of this story. I can promise a happy ending and tooth rotting fluffy love! Just mind the tags. ;)


	12. Chapter 12

He doesn't want to open his eyes for fear that this moment will end. His naked body is quite literally draped across John's - who must have also moved closer in the night, as their foreheads are touching and whose arm is now protectively wrapped around him. He can feel each rise and fall of his bedmate’s breathing, every exhale ghosting across his face. Morning breath be damned; Sherlock could not be happier than where he is currently, ensconced in a cocoon of duvet and John.

When he finally opens his eyes, John’s are staring back. A hand reaches up to rest against his cheek as John smiles and runs his thumb lightly over his skin and along his jaw before skimming it over his lower lip, moving closer to replace it with the barest brush of a kiss. John's eyes never break their hold on his own. Something there. In his eyes, in this moment, that wasn't there before. Like the man next to him has opened a door to his inner most self and for the first time is truly allowing him inside.

Given the fact of the close proximity and lack of clothing, Sherlock had nervously expected the moment to become heated and sexual like before, and though both of them, he knows, are fully aroused, this...this is more. Their eyes are locked in some nonverbal connection. John's hand has taken his and is affectionately tracing little patterns in his palm...

_John's eyes. So stunning. Not just blue, more of a dark sapphire mixed with gray. With hints of green and a starburst of gold around the pupil. Could spend hours studying the complexity of colors mixing… want to spend hours - years - studying all of him. Touching. Holding. Kissing. Loving…_

He pulls his gaze from John's to look down at the fingers lazily drawing on his hand. Years of not daring to ever imagine this scenario. The things left unsaid, for far too long, are ringing in his head. John's own words (“that chance doesn't last forever, Sherlock. It's gone before you know it…”).

_Not this time. No. Not letting it go this time..._

_“_ John?” his voice shaky and thick with emotion as their eyes meet again. Just inches apart. Still mostly wrapped together…

_Those ocean deep eyes_ , _that smile, perfectly silver hair that used to catch the sun like gold. The bravery and commanding demeanor of the soldier, wrapped in soft jumpers and smelling like tea and...home. The anger and the calm. I have loved it all...every part of him, for so long. So long. Loved. Love. John. Always John. Only ever John._

“John, I...I” he stutters, and falls silent.

“Find this kinda stuff hard, too?” a similarly heavy voice interjects, a nervous but warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.  

“Obviously,” he mumbles, looking down again at their hands, the conversation stalling.

John’s fingers press harder into his palm, still tracing…

_My John. Always there to ground me. Even when he seems at a loss as well..._

“You see but you don't observe, Sherlock…” his blogger's slightly nervous voice cuts into his thoughts, using his own repeated phrase in a softened whisper full of affection.

He too glances toward their hands and back up. Cocking an eyebrow and smiling...almost shyly, a light blush on his cheeks.

“God, I have had so many years to think of the words to use, and here we are and I still can't...they don't seem like enough, do they?”

John continues, fingers moving in strokes and loops, glancing down again at their hands…and back up.

_Why does he keep doing that? Almost like he wants me to see someth...oh! OH! How did i miss it? He isn't just stroking...he is spelling!_

He looks down again, as does John.  Both of them watching fingers run over his palm one more time.

Spelling it out over Sherlock's skin.

He takes a shuddered breath and stills John's hand by closing his own around it... he reaches his other hand over to lift John's chin so their eyes are locked once more…

_My turn..._

And the words finally tumble out. He gives in and allows all of his closed doors to swing open as he whispers, _“_ I love you, too, John...so much...and for so long...”


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a two chapter day! 
> 
> Enjoy!!

“I have loved you for longer than I even knew what it was, John. Feelings - not usually my area. Also, I was...afraid...once it was obvious...so afraid to do anything to make you uncomfortable.To make you leave. I started to think you felt the same, but by then I knew there was a good chance I would have to disappear - or actually die - I wanted to say it then, on the roof, but I couldn't. Couldn’t leave with those as my last words. When I came back, it was too late- there was Mary, and then Rosie."

“When you finally moved back, I feared I had lost the chance long ago from reluctance to act on it when I had the opportunity. I was happy to have you here, you and Rosie, with me, in any capacity. I could not risk losing you again. Being without you all that time…It was hateful.”

“God, Sherlock,” he whispered, leaning his head to rest them forehead to forehead again.

“We...We are both idiots.”

“John?”

“You have no idea how long I've wanted this, Sherlock. Now, knowing we both did, it feels like we wasted so much time getting here.”

Long fingers brush against his cheek.

“Not wasted, John. Not a moment of having you in my life has been wasted. It just...we took the long road to get to this point.”

John runs his hand up the back of Sherlock's neck, playing with the short hairs at the nape.

“I love you William Sherlock Scott Holmes,” he answers. “Think I always have done,” and leans in, pressing their lips together, trying to pour every emotion into this kiss...and the next...

_It's out there. Years of denial. All the skating around the obvious. Every missed chance. Every single moment that could have or should have been, has come down to this...to US...to now._

John never expected the actual words to come first from Sherlock.

He was supposed to have been the brave one, the _emotional_ one. He knows he chickened out there, when it came down to voicing it, choosing the nonverbal route, but the man now pressed against his mouth had understood, and then dropped every wall and barrier around himself and actually spoke the words out loud. The younger man's courage helping him to cross that final line himself.  

No more hiding, denying, pretending. This is _real_ . This who we are now, who we always were...but so much _more_.

****

Sherlock's eyes flutter open at the touch against his cheek.

_Sleeping again? Dull! Something about lying with John, though, just makes it so easy…maybe so much emotion or too much kissing - so much kissing. If that's the case maybe it's worth this dull side effect..._

A drop of water hits his face and he turns his head towards a towel wrapped, shower damp John standing next to the bed, stroking his face.

“Think you might've slept more the past day than I've seen you sleep in years,” John teases, leaning over him to press a kiss to his forehead.

“Are you leaving to get Rosie?” he responds with a yawn.

“Uhhh, nooo. I may have failed to tell Molly we got back early. She has her till this evening, she is bringing her ba…” Sherlock cuts him off by hooking both arms around his back and pulling him roughly onto the bed.

“Oi! Watch it!”

“You watch it, _Doctor,”_  he teases _, “_ you're the one who is dripping all over my sheets.”

_Flirting, is this flirting?_

An almost predatory smile crosses John's face as he rolls and pins himself atop Sherlock, whisper-growling into his ear, “Give me a few minutes and I won't be the only one…”

_Oh. John. Two can play this…_

Sherlock quickly wraps both his legs around John's hips and with one sharp jerk flips them so he is on top.

Giving a playful smile, he all but purrs, “Threat or _promise_ , Dr. Watson?”


	14. Chapter 14

John scoots backwards toward the headboard, sitting up and pulling him forward until he is straddling John's lap.

He wraps both his legs around John's waist, shifting them even closer, while John's clever tongue is attacking his neck, licking and kissing his way up, coaxing small, embarrassing whimpers from his throat.

One of John's hands slips up the back of his neck, guiding their lips together, pressing their bodies impossibly close as their tongues meet and tangle in a deep, dizzying kiss.

Tentatively, he begins to let his hands wander across John's chest and shoulders. The soldier flinches beneath him as long, curious fingers come to rest over his scar.

_He's embarrassed._

Sherlock dips his head and softly places kisses over the ghost of a wound, laying his other hand over John's heart.

“Without this, John, we would've never met...” he soothes, as he lovingly traces the ridges of the scar until he feels the man below him relax. He kisses it again, and then slowly skates his hands lower, down over John's ribs. Shifting his weight back a bit, he rests his hands on John's legs, as he feels the brush of fingers over the similar angry marking on his own chest.

Sherlock breaks through the guilt-ridden thoughts he knows are lingering there by leaning in to claim another, more gentle kiss; without conscious thought, running his hands up under the edge of the towel still wrapped around John's waist.

John gasps sharply against his mouth, as his fingers absently start grazing along the doctor's inner thigh.

“Sherlock...please,” John begs, falling back, knocking the headboard against the wall. “I want you to touch me, please?”

“Wh...what do you...how?”

“Anything, Sherlock...God, anything, I just want to feel you...OH!”

John gasps, his words cut off by a hand slowly moving higher up his upper thigh, the muscle beneath clenching in response.

He lets one long finger glide up further, until he is just grazing the crease between thigh and groin.

John’s breathing turns to heavy panting as Sherlock begins to nervously work at the knot in the towel.  Hands shaking slightly, he tugs the offending barrier between them away and tosses it off the bed.

“ _Anything_ , John?”

“Oh, God yes, whatever you want…”

“I-I’ve never...but want to...try…” his voice trailing off as he lets his mouth and hands wander over John's body - over his shoulders and chest, kissing, nuzzling, exploring.  Mapping each part of John's body with his hands and mind. Fascinated by the different textures of hair and skin, by the smell and taste of each new area. Cataloging how each sound the man beneath him is making affect him, too.  

He can feel John's pulse quicken and muscles quiver as his hands caress the softer planes of his stomach...wandering lower into a trail of light hair.

He chances a quick look up at John's face: flushed and watching him intently.

He places a long sucking kiss at John’s hip and looks up once more, smiling nervously before licking into the crease of skin below.

******

He closes his eyes in hopes of calming the younger man by not watching. 

All his other senses now heightened,  he struggles to hide his desperation to feel those long musician's fingers brush and close around his…  
  
“Fuuuuck!” he curses, moaning loudly as his back arches violently off the bed when not just fingers but also an unexpected wet heat envelopes him.   
  
Another large hand splays warm and firm across his lower abdomen, trying to hold him still as he bucks up into the gorgeous mouth that is now surrounding him.   
  
He reaches down to card his fingers through the disheveled mop of dark hair in his lap, his arousal rising with every tentative lick.   
  
Sherlock peeks up at him, through a  disarray of curls, watching him, as that tongue, that could be so acerbic when vocal, swirls with a gentle firmness just below the head of his cock.

Those kaleidoscope eyes now just black pools of pure arousal, but with all their cleverness still shining through, watching his every reaction.

The detective rolls his tongue again while sucking hard, causing him to cant his hips up once more. The hand on his stomach moves as Sherlock shifts to prop himself over John, slowing his rhythm as he lowers himself  down, swallowing more than John could imagine he could before retching slightly, though not pulling off.   
  
He can feel himself hitting the back of Sherlock's throat, each time moaning a bit more loudly and desperately, holding back from thrusting, the urge growing stronger and stronger by the minute.   
  
The movements are slow but steady as Sherlock uses his hand to stroke firmly where his mouth can't reach, and John is amazed at how quickly his friend is learning to read his body language, knowing when to slow down and when to speed up, growing more and more confident with each movement, pushing him further to the edge before easing up.   
  
Knowing he won't last much longer like this, he gives a small tug at Sherlock's hair, who looks up questioningly, and is momentarily confused as John pushes him upward, causing him to sit back on his knees.   
  
John kneels in front of him, one hand gripping the back of the younger man's neck, dragging him into a wet insistent kiss while the other trails over pale skin, softly brushing his fingers against a peaked nipple.

A deep baritone moan escapes into John's mouth as he feels their cocks touch. Sherlock’s nails dig into his back as the younger man instinctively bucks his hips, his erection slick and grinding against John's.

Sherlock breaks the kiss, his breath becoming an erratic panting.

“Jawwn. I want...need to…need you...please…” Sherlock whines into his ear, with a broken desperation in his voice as he continues to rut insistently against John’s thigh.

John claims his mouth again, in a hard, needy kiss, as he reaches between them to take Sherlock's hand and wrap it around both of their achingly hard cocks.

Entwining his own smaller hand  with the detective’s, he directs the younger man's motions, helping him find a rhythm as they both thrust into joined hands.

A desperate, choked off moan against his mouth is almost more than he can take.

“Chrissst! Sh’lock! Yes! Oh God Yes!”

Sherlock's vocabulary has utterly escaped him, reducing the man to breathy huffs and guttural moans intermixed with John's name. 

“Jawwwn...Jawwn!...OHFUCKINGHELL!”

_Fucking Christ hearing him cuss like that will be the death of me._

John laves his tongue down over a collar bone and bites down, causing

Sherlock's head to fall back as he lets loose a moan,that is half growl,  loud enough that John is fairly certain people outside the flat must have heard. The hot coiling tension builds in their thrusts as he squeezes them harder together.

 _“_ JohnJohnJohnJaaawwwnn...OHGODOHFUUUCK!”

He can feel his partner's orgasm hit, pulsing hard and hot against him, the wetness slickening their thrusts.

He loses his last ounce of control watching Sherlock come undone against him, the feel of his body pulsing tight against his own skin; it takes two, maybe three final thrusts and he groans Sherlock's name loudly as his own orgasm crashes over him.

They rut through the aftershocks together before collapsing onto each other in a sated and sweaty heap, catching their breath between lazy kisses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as usual to my wonderful and patient friend and beta, englandwouldfalljohn(theladyamalthea) for putting up with this bear of a chapter and its editing!  
> (and my frequent freak outs!)
> 
> Also, to my friend, Claire, for being a "smut coach", and a sounding board when i was panicky.  
> <3 <3


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the bit longer gaps between chapters. Life and stuff happens, for me and my Beta. 
> 
> I will attempt to still get a chapter up each week, but some may go a bit longer. 
> 
> Thank you all for the lovely comments you've been leaving! Please bear with me, I will do my very best not to let the gaps between chapters get too long!! <3

“Sherlock! _Get_ _out_! You've been in there for bloody ages! Molly’ll be here soon!” John shouts through the bathroom door. 

_ That man spends more time in the damn shower than any woman I've ever known! _

He ties the bit too long borrowed plaid dressing gown tighter around himself, tugging at pyjama bottoms that are a little too tight and rolled up at the bottoms, and goes to the kitchen to start some tea just as the doorbell rings.

“Sherlock!!! OUT!!!” he yells again as he hears Mrs Hudson ushering Molly and Rosie inside.

He meets them on the landing, Rosie squealing “Da!!” as Molly hands over the squirming toddler.

“Hey there, love! You miss Daddy?”

“Da! ‘Osie ‘iss oo!” as she snuggles into his neck.

“Hey John!” Molly begins while setting down the travel bag.

“She was just lovely! She is talking so much now! Oh, we had such a…a...” her voice trails off, a nervous giggle escaping as her hands fly up to stifle it, wide eyed, as she looks John over before averting her gaze to the floor. 

She mumbles to her feet, “That's...um...not your robe, is it? A bit too long for you…”

_ Damn. _

"John? When  _ did  _ you two get back?” she asks quietly.

_ Oh. She knows. _

Trying hard to sound casual, he answers a bit too quickly.

“Truthfully? Yesterday afternoon, but we were a bit knackered after and…”

Before he can get another word out, a still shower-wet Sherlock decides to grace them with his presence, flouncing into the sitting room...in just his bedsheet.

John sighs.

“Jesus, Sherlock put on your  _ clothes _ !!! We have company!”

Her eyes give Sherlock a shy once over and any semblance of control Molly had disintegrates into uncontrollable giggles.

Sherlock looks at her in confusion, then at John.

“Bit not good?”

“Yeah. A bit, Sher...you can't just prance around half starkers in front of…”

Molly's giggles become a full blown laugh.

A confused Rosie looks around at each of them and begins to giggle in response to Molly's laughter.

Catching sight of Sherlock over John's shoulder she squeals and reaches for him.

“Noo, love. Sherlock can't play until he decides to put his bloody pants  _ on!” _

_ “ _ Oh FINE,” he sulks, heading back to his room, sheet trailing behind him, as Molly manages to get herself mostly under control. 

“S-sorry bout that,” she stutters. “It's just, well, you...he...oh, i was starting to think you both would never figure,” she gestures toward Sherlock's bedroom, “ _ this  _ out. Some of the yarders even sort of had bets for a while…kinda gave up on it though.”

_ Bets? Oh God. Really? _

_ “ _ Um. Figured what out?” John asks, badly feigning innocence.

“Oh  _ John, _ ” she starts, clearing her throat a bit anxiously.

“Well for starters. He comes out here dripping wet and half naked and you're in  _ his _ clothes. Not to mention...uh... you  _ do _ know about those bruises on your neck? I'm sure you've seen the matching one on his shoulder? Doesn't take a genius...” she shrugs, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on her shoes.  

_ Christ. I'm being deduced by Molly-fucking-Hooper of all people. _

She finally looks up and smiles.

_ “ _ I really am happy for you both though. Really! He already told me he was...well, it's just if ever two people were meant to end up together...you both were. You need each other,” and she pulls John into a quick, awkward hug.

“Keep him in line, yeah?” she says, a bit wistfully, but with a genuine smile. 

****

“Am I  _ presentable _ now, John?” he asks with exaggerated sarcasm as he reenters the room in faded gray pajama bottoms and t-shirt under his blue dressing gown. 

He walks up behind John, slipping both arms around his waist possessively, resting his head atop his shorter friend's.

John jumps a bit. Molly squeaks. Rosie laughs and claps, reaching over John's shoulder to grab at Sherlock's hair.

“What? She  _ obviously _ knows John. Really, give her some credit!”

“I-I can't! Oh you two are  _ adorable!”   _ Molly manages to exclaim, as John cringes at the word and Sherlock rolls his eyes almost audibly.

“Ooohh, does Mrs Hudson know?! I bet she is over the moon!”

“We only just really figured it out ourselves, Mol,” John replies.

“We  _ should _ tell Hudders, John. Molly's right. She will be insulted if she isn't one of the first to know. She  _ has _ been trying to push this for years,” he says, tightening his grip on John's waist and leaning down to nuzzle Rosie’s nose.

“Hey there, little bee!”

Molly beams.

“Well, then, I'm off. Work and all. Just...anytime you want me to take her, John, just ask!”

“Ta Molly,” he nods as she turns and heads down the steps.

Sherlock leans over and brushes a soft kiss against John's cheek.

“Half the yard will know by the end of the day if she talks to Lestrade, John.” Then he adds quietly and a bit more unsure sounding than he’d have liked,  “Does this...bother you?”

“God, no. I'm sorry. Just...she caught me off guard. Guess I thought it could stay between us a bit longer before we told people. I am  _ not at all _ afraid to admit you and I are…um... _ what _ are we?” John questions, relaxing back into the man behind him.

“We are just...us, John. Does it really need a label?”

“Well, kinda yeah,” his blogger answers. “Can’t say friends or flatmates *giggle*, think we pretty much trampled  _ that _ line. Partners? Boyfriends? Lovers?”

“I am not averse to  _ boyfriends, _ although it  _ is _ a bit juvenile. Maybe partners? Technically we were already, in a sense, partners.”

“Partners then,” John nods, turning in his arms to kiss him softly.

The moment is broken by a high pitched squeal and Rosie clapping in John's arms.

“Da!!!! Da kish Shh’Yock!”

“I think she approves,” he smiles, whispering against John's lips.

Letting go he continues, “Speaking of approvals…”

He walks to the top of the landing, grabbing the rail.

John tugs on his sleeve “OH! you are  _ not...” _

He turns and gives John his best “bit not good grin” and a wink before leaning all the way over and shouting,

“MRS. HUDSON!”

The sound of feet approaching the lower landing accompany a chastising,  

“Young man there is no need to yell…”

“Mrs Hudson. John and I have recently become...intimate; we thought we should inform you…”

A lilting laugh comes from below as she appears at the base of the stairs.

“Oh Sherlock! Boys. I  _ know.  _ Mrs. Turner’s boys know. Pretty sure anyone with ears knows! Not exactly quiet...oh, but I think it's lovely you two finally sorted it out...just maybe try to keep the volume down? Now. I'll go get us some nibbles and tea, shall I?” 

He turns back toward John, who has turned an alarming shade of red, as her voice calls up once more. “Oh, and boys? I'm not washing the sheets...not your housekeeper!”

Downstairs a door shuts and their land lady's audible squealing giggle permeates the flat. Sherlock glances at John and arches an eyebrow, and both men dissolve into laughter.  


	16. Chapter 16

“You know this would go infinitely faster if you would just  _ hold still,”  _ Sherlock gently chastises as Rosie pulls forward, yanking her hair free of the elastic he has been struggling to wrap around one wispy pigtail for the umpteenth time.  

Sighing in frustration, he puts the hair tie in his teeth and pulls her back into his lap, beginning again to comb her soft blonde curls, gathering them for another try.

“Sith thill lil bee,” he lisps, trying to speak around the tiny rubber band, seizing the moment that she stops moving to look back at him with a giggle to quickly remove the tie from his mouth and twist it into her hair.

“There. Finally. A matching set! So pretty!” he tells her, giving her a quick bounce on his knee. “Now. Let's put on your…”

“Shh’Yock pity too?” she interrupts, reaching up to pat his hair. “ ‘Osie do it?”

She reaches down to pick up a plastic pink butterfly barrette from the small box of tiny hair elastics  and clips and holds it up with a very serious, questioning look that is so  _ John _ it makes him laugh.

Dutifully, he lowers his head and allows tiny fingers to comb through his hair, trying not to wince as she yanks and tugs and  _ stabs _ with the clip, tiny tongue poking out in concentration as she manages to tangle a few curls into and around the clip enough for one bright pink butterfly to hang over his ear.

She pats his cheek and reaches up to plant a sloppy wet baby kiss on his nose.

“Shh’Yock so pity!” she squeals, reaching up to touch her handiwork.

He can't help but grin stupidly as he lifts her up to give her a gentle hug.

“Thank you, Rosamund.”

She scrunches up her face and shakes her head.

“I yittle bee. Shh’Yock yittle bee!”

He holds back a chuckle at her tiny disdainful face.

“Indeed you are, my dear Watson. You are my Little Bee.”

He vaguely hears familiar footfalls on the stairs as she bats at the butterfly in his hair, tiny sapphire blue eyes crinkling up in a smile.

She grasps his hands in her tiny ones.

“Yuff yew. ‘Osie yuff yew, Shh’Yock,” she announces with a smile, and he doesn't even register John watching from the doorway as he stares at her like she is the most incredible being to ever exist, the tiny center of the solar system he thought he deleted from his memory.

******

John quietly sets down the Tesco bags and leans lightly against the door frame, silently  watching this little moment play out in front of him. 

His partner, the man he loves, seated cross legged on the sitting room floor, pink butterfly dangling above one ear, just staring at the tiny blonde with a look that could only be described as awe. His nearly 2 year old daughter perched on one of his knees, both tiny baby hands resting atop his much larger ones. Staring back with smiling eyes, after saying her version of “I love you” for only the second time in her life. The first had been to John one night as she drifted to sleep. This time…

_ Amazing. He’s part of her life now as much as I am. She seems to see no difference between having a Mum and a Dad or having two Dads. To her, he is her father just as much as I am. Doesn't matter at all that she isn't his. She knows he’s there for her and knows how he loves her to bits.   _

_ He should be...he already is...I want him to be... _

He lets the quiet moment go a minute longer, pondering that last thought, before clearing his throat and speaking up.

“You two look ready to hit the town,” he jokes, and Sherlock snaps back to from his reverie.

“Three. The three of us, John, and really that is such a preposterous expression,” Sherlock chides with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Pos’tis, Da!” a tiny voice chimes in, and Sherlock beams at her with an approving nod.

“Oi! It's like having two of you! Wait...you said...where are we…?

“Leaving in 10 minutes, John.”

“But, where? And seriously, you are really leaving that in your hair?”

“Angelo’s. Leaving in 10 minutes.” Sherlock quips back, then looks back at him with a smirk. “I wear that ridiculous ear hat for you, John, I can certainly wear a pink butterfly for her. Now. 10 minutes. Do go put the shopping away and get ready!” Sherlock waves him off with one hand while slipping on Rosie’s shoes with the other.

It takes him 12 before he meets them outside the front door, trying unsuccessfully to convince Sherlock to bring the pram, to which he is brushed off with an indignant “she wants to walk, John, she is a big girl!” from Sherlock and an “I a bee gurl” mimic from Rosie. Who makes it about 100 feet before whining to be carried, and ends up riding the rest of the way on Sherlock's shoulders.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Check out some amazing art work for this chapter here 
> 
> https://echosilverwolf.tumblr.com/post/160571092298/stunning-fan-art-for-my-fic-by-any-other-name

The following weeks pass quickly as a comfortable domesticity settles over 221b. John still goes to work at the hospital, although now only part time. The rest of his hours are spent on cases, chasing the criminal scum of London on Sherlock's coattails, with the remainder revolving almost solely around the three of them: daily routines and outings with Rosie, takeaway and quiet nights together on the couch.

John had moved almost immediately  into Sherlock's room, his own thrown rapidly into the process of becoming a proper little girl's room. Rosie, growing too big for her cot, is now in a small rail bed, the room repainted in yellow with, at her own tiny request, small decals of flowers and “yittle bees.”With a bit of extra toddler proofing and a sturdy gate at the top of the steps, John's room becomes Rosie’s. And Sherlock's is _theirs._

Rosie no longer spends most of John's work hours with Mrs Hudson or Molly; instead Sherlock insisted that she stay with him unless he needs to be out at a crime scene. However, as she is quite popular around NSY, she has become his tag along for completing paperwork or collecting case files. She’d even gotten herself a police badge from Lestrade - one Sherlock _didn't_ have to steal off the Detective Inspector.

The news of the shift in their relationship surprised no one, and indeed most people accepted it and were generally happy for them. Occasionally they do receive a judging comment or disgusted look, but John can’t be arsed to care. He is happy. Sherlock is happy. Everyone else can bugger off.

Sherlock can still be an abrasive prat on cases, yet his attitude toward those he knows well has improved exponentially. He calls Lestrade by name (whether due to an increase in sentiment or to Greg's not-so-secret “closeness” with his brother, John is still unsure), he treats Molly like family, and is just slightly less annoying to the other yarders on most days.

In the evenings, Rosie asleep, the two of them spend hours watching crap telly and movies, reading, working or doing their own separate things, but always in close proximity. Nights are spent tangled in sheets and each other. Mornings are made of lazy kisses and tea. With John in his bed, Sherlock seems a bit more amenable to the idea of sleep, and although  some nights he’s still up until unholy hours, John almost always wakes in a tangle of long arms and legs.

John never ceases to be amazed by the unremarkable moments of everyday life when he catches his partner in some random situation that makes his heart swell.

One such afternoon when he decides to come home early, he enters a strangely quiet flat to find Sherlock perched on the back of his chair, hands steepled, instructing Rosie - complete with oversized deerstalker covering half her face and using a child-sized magnifying glass - to painstakingly study a small stain on the carpet. Looking up at John, she puts her finger to her lips and tells him, “Shhh. I ‘tective, Da. Looky for coos!”

Another day, he walks in to see both of them huddled in a chair pulled next to the window sill, Rosie nestled, content and sleepy, with her back against Sherlock's chest. On closer inspection, they’re watching a bumblebee as Sherlock rattles off facts about the creature and Rosie listens intently while the small fuzzy thing buzzes lazily around the window.

He has been wondering when the novelty of “parenting” might wear off and a bored Sherlock might reappear, but to his shock and amazement, the man's devotion to and enjoyment of spending time alone with his daughter only seems to grow. Rosie has always been a daddy's girl, and she loves Mrs Hudson, even calling her “Nan,” but it is completely obvious who she truly has wrapped around her finger and whom she naturally gravitates toward. She has become absolutely smitten with Sherlock, and he with her.

John had worried at one point that he may become jealous of their natural bond, but in fact he loves watching them: the two people his world revolves around, growing together.

An idea has begun niggling at his mind recently, he just needs to sort out how to go about it, how to work on part of it with Rosie - perhaps with the help of Mrs Hudson - and yet, keep it secret from Sherlock.

Toddlers are never the best secret keepers. It will be tricky, he thinks, but entirely worth it when the right time comes...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a bit more narrative as it is meant to be a bit of a time bridge. It is also only from one POV as opposed to two as i usually do- the reason for that will be clear in the next one. 
> 
> I appreciate you all so much for folllowing me and this story. I adore all the lovely comments!! They make my day! 
> 
> I promise you all the fluff and of course a cute and happy ending  
> but-  
> **Please watch as my tags have changed slightly for the folllowing chapters.**


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *Warning. This chapter contains a major character injury and is a bit of a detour from fluff.*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the posting delay. Life got a bit hectic and I am down a Beta at the moment. 
> 
> This chapter edited by my friend, Claire. Thank you for filling in and helping me to get this one up!!  
> <3

He is crouched down next to the railing of the bridge, Sherlock across the way also staying to the shadows. The suspect they have been following now heading in this direction. The plan being to cut him off and hopefully subdue him until backup arrives.

He shifts his weight back to his other leg and tries to keep his breathing quiet in the cold late December air.  At the same time he pulls his gun into his right hand, should the need arise to use it. The man is supposedly alone and unarmed but that doesn't mean not dangerous. Knowing Sherlock, he will get himself in harm's way somehow before the night ends.

He sees a shadowy figure emerge ahead of them and glances to Sherlock. He can't make out his face, but notices when he turns toward him as well with a nod of silent acknowledgment. He watches the detective drop to a crouch, like a cat ready to pounce, and John prepares to dart out too when he hears footsteps, however, they don't seem to be coming from ahead of him where they should be. They sound like they are much closer and…

The last thing he remembers is the sound of Sherlock shouting his name and the heavy thud of something hitting the back of his head, sending him lurching into the bridge railing, then a feel of weightlessness as everything goes black…

*****

Sherlock has just finished firing off a text alert to Lestrade.

**Blackfriars Bridge. Suspect in sight.**

**-SH**

He turns to John on the far side and nods, then shifts, preparing to spring out and intercept their suspect as he nears.

That's when everything goes very, very wrong.

He gives one final glance toward John and sees the second man move from the shadows behind him out of nowhere. He sees the wooden board. He hears himself scream John's name a fraction too late, and is already sprinting across the bridge just as wood hits skull and John staggers backward, his own feet tripping him, throwing him awkwardly into the railing. He watches in horror as John loses his balance, and goes tumbling over the edge.

In an instant there is no case. The work doesn't matter and all remotely rational thought abandons him. He's already kicked off his shoes while breaking into a full run, shrugging the Belstaff and his scarf onto the pavement. Not caring about either man still moving toward him, he just barely dodges between them both, reaches the railing at full tilt and, without hesitation, vaults himself over the side, falling feet first into the icy water of the Thames.

Hitting the river from that height is painful enough, but the shocking _cold_ of the winter water is as sharp as knives as he surfaces, knocking the wind from him momentarily.  

_“Deep waters, Sherlock”,_ the haunting voice of his sister taunts his mind, “ _all your life, in all your_ _dreams. Deep waters.”_

He shudders, shaking his head to clear the disorientation and disturbing memory.

_John. Must find John._

Never more thankful for being a strong swimmer, he treads effortlessly as his eyes dart over the dark river, scanning for any sign of John.  By sheer luck there is enough light from the bridge above to just catch a glimpse of silver floating not 10 feet away.

He closes the distance in seconds grabbing the hood of John's waterlogged parka and tugging his limp body around to face him.

John had forced him to take a first aid course years ago, dull he had thought at the time, and now he frantically pulls at every bit of anything he did not delete on rescuing drowning victims. He feels beyond helpless.

_John is the doctor. John saves the lives. John would know what to do and already be doing it!! THINK!!!_

He treads water as he holds John's head as far out of the water as possible with one arm. 

_First: Check for breathing._

Kicking hard to stay afloat, he pulls John's unconscious body up against him and leans over his face.

_Nothing. No sound. No air-in the cold you would see it as well as feel it. Nothing. No. No. No. Stop panicking.THINK!_

The cold of the water and his own fear are slowing his usual rapid fire thought process.

_Next step: Give two rescue breaths for the victim if they are not breathing on their own and get them out of the water. You can't do CPR in the water, just breathe and swim._

He is strong enough to pull John along, but having to stop and breathe as well as keeping both of them above the water will be tricky. With John still in his soaked parka even in water he is much heavier and harder to hold onto.

He pulls John close and pinches his nose and, covering his mouth with his own, blows one, and then a second hard breath and checks again for any sign of breathing.

_Nothing._

He kicks awkwardly toward shore.

He pulls them forward several feet, and then again breathes his own air into John.

Tread. Breathe. Swim. Tread. Breathe. Swim.

It seems a lifetime before his feet touch ground. Shivering and in full panic now he hauls himself out of the river pulling John awkwardly with him onto the bank.

He lays his partner back and rips his jacket open. The jumper is too wet and thick to tear open so he doesn't waste time trying.

_Next step: Turn victim's head to side. Allow water to drain from mouth and nose. Check breathing. Check pulse._

He tilts John's head to the side, and then back when nothing comes out, leaning in to check for _any_ signs of breathing. Any signs of _life_.

_Nothing. NO. Please NO._

He feels for John's carotid pulse.

_Nothing. NO NO NO JOHN! I can't DO this alone._

_Next step: begin CPR._

This he remembers. He has seen John do it once. It has to be hard. Hard enough to crack ribs sometimes if done right, John had explained.

He is drained from swimming-not to mention with his usual habits of not sleeping or eating during a case, and real exhaustion is heavily settling in, but he has to do this. Has to get it right.

Taking a deep shaky breath, he gets himself up next to John's shoulders, kneeling over his lifeless companion. Emotion vies for control over reasoning and blurs his vision as he places the heel of his hand over John's chest, his other atop it, with his arms straight and uses all his strength to thrust 30 hard, rapid compressions before checking again.

Tilting John's head back and pinching off his nose he seals his mouth with his own, so much like a kiss, but feeling only the icy cold of John's still lips beneath his as he breathes for him, watching the rise and fall of his chest each time.  Nothing happens after. John's lips are blue/gray and his body limp and motionless. Choking back a helpless whimper he continues.

_30 compressions. 2 breaths._

 

_Damn it John, BREATHE._

 

_Compressions. Breathe. Check._

 

_Compressions._

 

He begins to beg out loud between breaths...

 

_“Don't you dare leave me, John Watson. Don't  you dare leave your daughter”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compressions._

 

_“They'll take her from me too. She isn't mine. I’ll lose you both”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compress._

 

_“I promised, John. I made a vow! I failed once. I can't...not again”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compress._

 

_“I need you...Rosie needs you”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compress._

 

_“I understand now. How you felt outside Barts. I am so sorry”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compress._

 

_“PLEASE. Don't. Be. Dead.”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compress._

 

_“Please. John. Wake up. Wake up. Wake up!”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compress._

 

_“You're...you're everything, John”_

 

_Breathe._

_Compress._

 

_“Just...do this for me...breathe, John.Please!”_

Running footfalls skid to a halt beside him, and a strong hand is on his back. Someone shouldering him toward John's head as 2 new hands replace his and begin a stronger, quicker beat into John's chest.

Sherlock sits back as the silver haired DI takes over the compressions. He nods solemnly every so often and Sherlock, kneeling beside John's head, gives 2 of his breaths.

“ _Oi! Mate. Come on now. Come on John! Breathe, you stubborn bastard!”_

Lestrade is yelling at the lifeless body between them, and all he can do is watch and breathe for his partner, while mentally pleading for him to live.

Every breath. Every compression. Part of Sherlock is dying. Dying on that beach with every kiss of air that seems to be doing nothing. Dying. John is Dying. Or already dead.

_No. Don’t. You. Dare. Die. IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou._

Sirens are approaching, he hears them somewhere behind his own thoughts and the pathetic whimpering he realizes is coming from himself. Lestrade is tirelessly forcing John's heart beat between every breath Sherlock gives. He doesn't stop as the ambulance approaches but his expression nearly stops Sherlock's heart. The older man's face is desperately trying to stay blank and failing. What he sees echoing the growing fear he feels himself.

Every compression sounds like _dead._

_dead dead dead dead dead._

_One Breath..._

 

_Please, John. Stay..._

 

Paramedics are running down the shoreline now.

 

_Two breaths._

 

_Please...John...stay with me…_

A gagging sputter of water hits his mouth as Sherlock pulls off the second breath with a gasp. Lestrade instantly hauls John onto his side as he violently begins to vomit and cough up the Thames from his lungs.

*****

The paramedics reach them, pushing both aside to work at stabilizing John. An oxygen mask is applied, wet clothing cut off and they cover him in blankets and an insulating aluminum sheet.

Greg sits back on his knees and rubs his hand over his face in relief and catching his breath before glancing over at the detective. He has never seen the man so utterly wrecked, and he has has seen him at some pretty bad times.

Sherlock is swaying slightly and shivering as the adrenaline dies away into fear and exhaustion. He is legitimately concerned the younger man may pass out from shock or hypothermia. His already pale skin now nearly translucent and his own lips tinged blue.

He scoots closer and takes his coat off, wrapping it and one arm around Sherlock. It's not much, but it's dry and at least a little warm. More than can be said about the man under it, who has now collapsed, shivering, into his side, burying his head into Greg's shoulder.

He strokes the younger man's hair as he would a child. The only thing he can think of as a comfort. Other than the first time they met, a time he would be happy forgetting, he has never seen the man this despondent, not sharp-witted and fully composed. With his abrasive attitude and smug confidence stripped away, he looks like nothing more than a terrified and lost kid.  

“Hey! S’ok. We got ’im back Sherlock. S’ok”, he offers gently, to the mop of wet, frozen hair at his neck.

Sherlock looks up, hazy red rimmed eyes wide, and throws both arms weakly around the DI in a silent thank you.

*****

They are moving John back up toward the ambulance now. He just barely hears them talking. John is breathing on his own now but  still not conscious.

“Oi! Boys! This one goes too!” he hears Lestrade yell up the beach. He is hauled to his feet, wavering, and hardly able to walk. He is half dragged, half carried up to the waiting medics.

“Family only” he hears, his heart dropping out once more at the familiar rule. It's not the first time he has had to be taken in a separate ambulance. Or find his own ride. Arguing rarely accomplishes anything and he is too cold and tired to even offer a rebuttal.

Only this time, through the haze of exhaustion, he hears the heated argument between a medic and Lestrade. A few moments later Greg's jacket is being replaced by two large blankets and he is being helped inside, next to John, in the back of the vehicle.

The last things he remembers are the monitors beeping out John's erratic heart beat as the doors close, his own vitals being taken, and then taking John's still cold hand and resting his head against the gurney rail before everything goes gray.


	19. Chapter 19

Sherlock wakes to the gentle tapping of an umbrella against linoleum. Raising his head from John's torso, he turns to meet his brother's gaze.

“A winter swim in the Thames? Not one of your more intelligent ventures, brother-mine.” At the nearly audible eye-roll coming from the man lying half-collapsed on the bed, Mycroft straightens his tie and attempts to adjust his tone. “However," he concedes, “given the circumstances, I would also have to say...quite commendable."

“Why are you here, Mycroft?” Sherlock demands with a yawn, his head still heavy with exhaustion from the night before. Though he had been discharged hours ago, he refuses to leave his partner's side.

“Getting you past the red tape of hospital protocol, Sherlock. I believe the words you are looking for are ‘thank you.’ I took the liberty of bringing you both some clothing that does not smell of the river.”

He eyes the pair for a moment before speaking again. The petulant younger sibling he has spent a lifetime failing to protect, and the man his brother has repeatedly defied death to rescue.

“I had never considered you the hero type little brother, and yet you’ve managed to save the good doctor once more, and without getting yourself killed in the process.”

“I am not a hero, Mycroft,” Sherlock replies quietly, glancing over at a still unconscious but much more  _ alive _ looking John.

“I suspect Dr. Watson might disagree with you. You most certainly saved his life, almost single-handedly.”

“Love is a powerful motivator,” comes the muffled reply as Sherlock rests his head against his sleeping partner.

“Yes, well. The doctors seem to think he will make a full recovery once he wakes. I will leave you two in peace. Let me know if I can be of further assistance,” the elder Holmes offers, turning to leave.

He pauses at the door, glancing back at his brother, hesitant to reveal his personal feeling on the matter. Hearing footsteps approaching in the hall, he drops his voice. “I am proud of you, Sherlock. Yet again you risked your life to save his. He would be remiss not to recognize your sacrifice this time.”

He turns toward the door to a quite sincere, “Thank you, My.” Mycroft gives his brother a rare smile and a nod as he closes the door behind him.

Sherlock takes one of John's hands, and, pressing it to his cheek, is dragged back into a weary sleep in his chair against John’s bed. 

*****

“Christ, Greg,” John rasps, his voice hoarse from violent coughing and strained with emotion as he looks up from the screen.  

He still has a spectacular headache and everything is a bit hazy, but he has been fully conscious now for over a day.

Greg had convinced Sherlock to go eat something, stealthily sliding him his own pack of cigarettes and a lighter as a bribe to finally leave the room for the first time. John saw, but said nothing. As much as he despises the habit, he also knows he is in no position to argue with the man who just saved his life.  

Once Sherlock was out of earshot, the DI pulled out a laptop and placed it atop John's legs.

“Might be a bit hard to watch, but...you should really see this, mate.”

The grainy black and white CCTV footage plays on the screen. Two cameras: one from the bridge and one along the shoreline.

He sees himself go over the rail, although he has no memory of falling. He watches Sherlock bolt across the bridge, ducking between the two men,  hurling himself over the side without hesitation;  a visual that causes a shudder from memories he would much rather forget.

There is no video of what had actually occurred in the water, but the little he has gotten out of Sherlock is that he had swum and performed mouth to mouth until they made it to the shoreline. The video fades out and back, the second camera picking up the scene on the beach.

John watches Sherlock dragging him, lifeless, from the water. John is unsure how the man was even capable of such exertion after swimming them both across the river; he had to have been both exhausted and freezing.

Watching his partner perform CPR is surreal. Something he himself has done so many times, but always on dry land or in hospital. Not on a freezing wet beach after swimming - and breathing - for two. Never for someone he loved. Sherlock had to have been overwhelmed and terrified, yet his rhythm never faltered. He watches as Lestrade moves in to help. Watches himself, lifeless between the two men until, convulsing, he is rolled sideways as the paramedics hit the beach. He watches, but now, instead of watching himself, his attention is on Sherlock, slumped heavily onto Greg's shoulder. Shaking visibly despite the poor video quality. Watches Greg haul him, barely able to stand, up the bank to the ambulance.

John closes the laptop.

“Sorry if that was a bit much, seeing yourself like that. My...we just thought you should see it yourself. What he did. He’d never tell it like it was. That he even got you to shore is a bloody miracle, but he had to have been at it on you ‘least 15 minutes before I got to him. Not sure on my best day I could've done that alone for that long without a trade-off. Not sure how he managed not passing out himself.”

John leans back heavily against the bed. Seeing it all play out makes it so much more real. He had been nearly dead. His daughter almost lost  _ both _ her parents before her 2nd birthday. If he had died, she would also have been removed from the only other parental figure she knows. God knows what that loss, both of them, would do to Sherlock. He still held enough guilt over Mary.

He knows what  _ he _ was like. After the fall. After Mary. He also knows what his marriage and, later, his abandonment, had done to Sherlock. He doesn't even want to think about what his death would have done to the man he loves.

“Greg? Can you text Mycroft? I need a favor.”

“Sure, mate, what do ya need?” the DI responds, pulling his phone from his jacket.

“He’ll know. Just tell him to get it ready. Was gonna wait a bit, but tell him sooner is better. I'm fairly sure he'll agree.”

Greg looks confused but does as he is asked, and is just replacing his phone when Sherlock pushes open the door.

“I'll let ya rest mate, it's good to have ya back,” he says, turning to leave.

Once the door is closed behind him, John holds a hand out to Sherlock.

“Come here you,” he quietly requests.

With a quizzical look, the younger man steps close and is pulled tightly down against John's chest and tugged gently onto the bed. He adjusts himself so they are lying side to side, his head resting against John's chest, careful to avoid all the wires and lines.

"John?” he questions, his voice muffled against the blankets.

“Don't you  _ ever _ tell me you aren't a hero, Sherlock. I saw the video. That….that was amazing.”

John chokes on his words, trying for a joke, but they come out sounding more like a sob than he’d have liked.

“John, really...I'm not...I just…”

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Shut up,” he chides, pulling his detective into a tearful kiss.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone has had a chance to go back and see the two wonderful new fanart additions for chapters 1 and 17. ("Rosie" in 17 is exactly my visual of her. Inspired by Photos of a baby, also named Rosie, in my real life)
> 
> I have yet to figure out how to make a proper post for them but, until i can, follow the links over to tumblr to see them. To Claire and Maria i just adore both peices. Also anyone else who likes to make art, i would adore any other "visuals" for the story(or any of my others if you like!). If so, for those who don't know me on FB, I am now on tumblr under the same name. Or even if you just want to chat! I would love to meet any of you who have given me such amazing support while writing this :)
> 
> Much love to all of you!!
> 
> **Echo

Sherlock has barely let John out of sight since he pulled his body from the river. Thanks to Mycroft, they share a private hospital room, allowing Sherlock to stay on for the days following his own discharge until John is released. He leaves only for non-hospital food a handful of times (forced, obviously), and twice to help with Rosie between sitters. He inevitably returns even clingier than before.

Since the moment John had pulled him down onto his bed, his own has lain abandoned, much to the irritation of the nurses.

John is finally discharged this evening. No lasting damage. Only issue is his octopus of a partner who, when not draped around him, flits about like a nervous mother, attempting to help him dress, budged up next to him in the cab home, and just barely not stepping on his ankles on the stairs to their flat.

John doesn't say a word. He recognizes it for what it is and doesn't try to push him away. He’s all too familiar with this sort of stress and panic. Sherlock is scared. Terrified. Of a loss that _almost_ happened. The very real and very emotional sort of trauma caused by seeing someone you love die (and oh, John knows about that...). To be honest, John also is still a bit shaken from the whole ordeal seeing as for a short time he was technically dead, and this man he loves so dearly is the only reason he’s even here right now.

As annoying as it is having a second shadow, he _does_ understand. So he allows.

He allowed him to fall asleep holding his wrist, even though he knew he was counting heartbeats. Allowed him to keep watch next to him in a cramped hospital bed. Allowed him to assist him with things he was capable of doing alone.

He allows him to become a crutch, helping him up 17 steps. Allows him to lead him into the flat. Allows his coat to be removed and hung up. Allows all the small, tangible acts that seem to offer reassurance.

It's late and John moves toward the kitchen to start some tea when a far more gentle than usual hand grips his shoulder, turning him carefully, the detective crowding into his space, backing him against the wall. Those pale eyes baring all the openness and vulnerability shown to no one else. He braces one hand on the wall above John's head, the other tracing slowly over his unshaven jaw line before leaning into him, foreheads touching.

“Don't...John? Don't...leave...again. Ever. Please.”

The words are a plea, desperate and needy. His voice deep yet soft, his breath anxious huffs of air against John's face. The fragmented statement is full of every bit of sentiment the man has to offer.

John stretches up, just barely brushing their lips together, feeling Sherlock shudder against him as he speaks.

“Never on purpose,” he whispers. “I swear it. I can't promise what you're asking, but I can tell you, Sherlock, I am here for as long as you'll have me. I’m not going anywhere.”

The last word is nearly cut off as  Sherlock leans down to claim his mouth, pressing him gently but firmly into the wall, their bodies flush against one another.

The kiss quickly becomes a heated battle of tongues, John's hands tangling in Sherlock's hair as the taller man nudges his legs apart with his knee, sliding down slightly to bring their hips together. John can feel him, hard against his own answering arousal, and arches his back from the wall, pressing into him and offering a bit of friction. He is rewarded with small desperate noises from his partner as he thrusts back.

The emotional intensity of the moment is heady; all the fear and anxiety of the past week mixing with desire and want. The need for comfort and closeness manifesting into something sexual, yet so much _more._ More intense than anytime before. A frantic desire to get _closer_.

He is mouthing his way down Sherlock's neck, kissing and biting.  Not caring if he leaves marks. _Wanting_ to leave marks, to brand himself into that ivory skin so everyone can see that this gorgeous, amazing, brilliant man belongs to him. He laves his tongue over the sensitive area just above his clavicle and Sherlock moans loudly, his head lolling onto John's shoulder.

Something is whispered into his collar, but John doesn't catch it, too lost in the moment. 

Then the thrusting stills abruptly, and Sherlock pulls back slightly to look at him. _Into him._ Dark hair wildly disheveled and pupils blown so wide that those pale irises are but a halo around them. His eyes searching John's.  

He feels himself blush at being the sole object of such intense focus.

“John,” the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice vibrates against his chest as long fingers trace the edges of his ear and he leans in to whisper, “I _need_ you,” his lips ghosting where his fingers have trailed. “All of you, all of it.” He gestures at them both with his free hand. “I need _you,”_ he repeats, tentatively, eyes holding on John's fixedly.

John's breath hitches at the implication.

_The one thing we haven't done, or even discussed. It just never got that far. Was never mentioned. The logistics, the who wants what and how; but now...is he asking me?_

And, as usual, it’s like that mad genius can hear his thoughts.

“Take me to bed, John?”

 


	21. Chapter 21

John brings a hand up to touch his cheek.

“You're sure? Sherlock? This… is what you want...I mean, I could...if you would rather...I could be the…” John stutters nervously, obviously unsure where this staggered conversation is even going - and Sherlock silences him with a finger to his lips.

John's eyes soften at the touch, unguarded and tender. Mirroring the same uncertainty and vulnerability he himself has been fighting since his blogger sputtered back to life against him.  

The same cautious longing in his gaze, but something else too. Something a bit more wild and uninhibited, betrayed only by the twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

_Desire. Need. Want._

Sherlock shivers at his own deduction, then drags his finger slowly away from John's mouth, replacing it with his own, before susurrating his answer, a hint of desperation in his voice, breathily against John's lips.

“Yes, John. I _want_ this. Want _you. Like this._ More than anything. _Please?”_

John is kissing him now, deep and rough, aggressively pushing them both away from the wall. Sherlock relinquishes all control he had over the situation and allows himself to be backed across the room, stumbling around furniture, into the kitchen, hands and mouths never breaking contact. Down the hall, where John kicks open the door to their room. It slams hard into the wall, the sound reverberating through the quiet flat, but neither man is remotely concerned about damage or the noise.

The backs of his knees hit the bed and he loses his balance a bit, but before he can tumble onto the bed, John's hand catches him, warm and electric against his skin, lowering him gently. John's body following him down onto the mattress.

“Tell me again what you want, Sherlock. _Say it._ ” His partner's command is rough with arousal, yet his voice is still shaky and unsure. Bracing himself on his arms above Sherlock, a bit of silver hair falls into his face as he stares down at him.

And Sherlock shudders. John above him, looking at him like that. No one has ever looked at him like that.  He has never wanted anything more, is almost desperate now to give and then take everything from this man. To catalogue every remaining unknown detail of John Watson in the most intimate of moments.

“You. John. I want _you_ ...above me, below me, next to me. All of you surrounding me...all of you _inside_ of me.”

He feels the low growl from the back of John's throat vibrate through his body as their lips meet once more. John's tongue chasing his as the buttons on his shirt are being swiftly undone.

A calloused hand gently sliding up his chest to push the fabric out of the way, before sliding lower to grapple with his belt.

His own hands rucking up the base of John's jumper, sliding under his vest, long fingers splaying out over bare skin, before pulling both garments off of him at once.

John unfastens Sherlock’s belt and the button and zip on his trousers with one hand, fingers dipping below the waistline of the loosened clothing. His hand sliding down, palming the already prominent hardness through his pants.

Sherlock breaks the kiss as his head falls back in a silent moan, arching slightly into John's touch before his own hands begin working between them at John's jeans. He quickly has them undone and John pulls away for a moment to kick off his shoes and shove everything off and onto the floor, followed shortly by him divesting Sherlock of the remainder of his clothing as well. Returning to settle himself between long pale legs.

He shivers as John's touch gently grazes both his thighs and warm breath and soft kisses are being trailed down his abdomen, then lower. Gentle nips and licks over hip bones and into the crease between pelvis and thigh.

He gasps loudly as the wet heat of John's mouth slides over him. Taking him in, fully, until he hits the back of the man's throat and John begins moving slowly up and back down, tongue rolling and teasing and pressing firmly along his length.

Sherlock bucks up involuntarily, unable to hold back a loud baritone moan, and John's hands settle onto his hips, holding him still, working him over with only that skilled tongue.  

The sensations soon become too much, nearly overwhelming, and he tugs insistently at John's hair, panting hard.

“Th-thop! Pleathe!” He catches the vocal slip too late to stop it.

John grips him hard, stilling the impending climax, and pulls off with a _pop,_ nuzzling into the concave dip of his belly with a soft, affectionate laugh.

“I told you...it's cute,” comes his partner’s muffled voice against his skin in response to his audibly indignant huff of exasperation. “Quite _adorable_ , actually, _”_ John continues, pressing a kiss to his navel before sliding lower. Any argument he has on his lips dissolves into a breathy whine as John moves even lower and his tongue finds a new target.

******

John has found the most effective way to shut the man up in bed is to catch him off guard.

He _likes_ the lisp. It really is quite adorable. He doesn't want him to become ashamed or sulky over it.

 He dips his head lower. Only a brief hesitation. He's never done this to anyone, but he desperately wants to try it now.

He nestles down further between endless pale legs and tentatively licks a long wet stripe first from perineum all the way up Sherlock's length, then trailing his mouth and hands back down again, over a lean upper thigh, and lower. Spreading him open. Teasingly, he just barely grazes the tip of his tongue over a quivering entrance. The harsh intake of air above him makes him bolder and he begins pressing harder, tongue flattened and firm over the tight ring of muscles. Gently at first then harder, finding he enjoys this much more than he had imagined, as each press and lick causes Sherlock to whine and shudder above him.

He is doing that. He is the one, the only one, to do that to him. To ever have done it, or any of this. To cause this amazing, gorgeous, complicated man to come apart - to whimper and whine and _beg -_ with just his mouth.

He begins to press harder, licking and mouthing with each buck of his partner's hips until, working his tongue pointedly inside, the muscles begin to relax and open.

Sherlock exhales noisily, with a full body tremor. His voice nothing but incoherent slurring between breathy whimpers and the occasionally _loud_ rasp of John's name.   

The smell of sex and sweat ( _and damn, that poncy expensive soap)_ and everything _Sherlock,_ is intoxicating and everywhere _._ His own cock is now painfully hard and leaking against those expensive sheets. He begins to thrust his tongue further inside, rougher, just to elicit more obscene noises from the man above him.

Sherlock lets out a strangled gasp.

“J-John. Please!”

John looks up with concern,

“Too much? You ok? I can stop…”

He withdraws a bit and a small tube is passed down in a trembling hand.

“God, NO, please, more. You. I need to feel _YOU!”_

John pops it open with one hand, going back to kissing and biting and caressing the soft skin of that exquisite ass, before returning his tongue for just a moment before exchanging it for a slicked finger. Working inwards gently, letting the muscles give slightly before pressing deeper, searching for…

“OHFUCK _JAWWN_ FUCK”

_Found it._

He grins to himself as he watches Sherlock arch off the bed violently. The obscenity rolling off that posh tongue going straight to his groin, he grinds himself down into the mattress as Sherlock's muscles clamp down against his hand.

_Obviously likes this, then._

A second finger tentatively joins the first, then a third. Thrusting and scissoring, he works Sherlock open, every few strokes making sure to brush the man's prostate, watching that long,  lithe body writhe and twist against him. Hearing him cry out, louder with every touch, until it becomes too much.

_God he is beautiful like this._

“Please,” Sherlock begs, his voice wrecked and breathless. “John, please. This is going to end before it starts if you do not get on with it!” The plea punctuated with another keening whimper as he twists his fingers and his partner grinds down once more against his touch. His long pale but flushed cock slick and leaking profusely into a rapidly growing pool on his torso.

That sight and a begging Sherlock is something he will never be able to refuse.

****

Sherlock hisses at the slow withdrawal of John's fingers. Watching intently as John takes himself in hand, and slicks himself up before crawling up to claim a lingering and affectionate kiss. Lips never parting as John grabs one of their pillows, gently lifting his hips to slide it under him before breaking away and settling back between Sherlock's knees.

“You _will_ tell me if it's too much, or you want to stop, understood? I don't want to hurt you. It's perfectly ok if you decide this isn't something you like…”

Sherlock again puts a finger to his lips, cutting him off.

“I want this, John. Want you. I would think that fact is...quite obvious,” he answers with a cocky grin and a nod in the direction of his pelvis. To drive home the point he folds both legs tightly around John's hips, dragging him closer.

He loves the little growl he earns in return.

And then John is there, hard and throbbing and pressing slowly and carefully into him. He winces at the slight burn and stretch as his body adjusts to the intrusion and new sensations; but any discomfort is quickly overridden by awe ( _oh god, John's soppy romanticism is contagious!)_ at the fact that John's body is _entering_ his _._ John moans, low and deep, and Sherlock exhales in a whimper, and relaxes his body beneath him, until they are completely joined. Every inch of John seated fully within him. He can feel John's pulse inside him. Beating against his own.

John stills. The height difference a bit much for him to reach Sherlock's mouth. John shifts his weight onto his good arm, leaning forward and reaching up to stroke his cheek.

He never imagined such a simple touch could feel so intimate.

“John…you're _inside_ me,” he manages to whisper, slightly embarrassed by the amount of wonder and sheer sentiment in his own voice. He never imagined it could be like this. The intense sensation of feeling connected to another person this way.  

John, in caretaker mode as always, brushes his face again, the hunger in his eyes warring now with a softer, affectionate expression as he seems to be watching the myriad of new emotions running through him.

John nuzzles into his shoulder and whispers into his skin.

“I love you, Sherlock.”

Those words from John's mouth, he thinks, will never cease to amaze him.

He wraps his legs and both arms tighter around John's hips and torso as he murmurs his own endearments, and then, thrusting upwards slightly, adds breathily, “John. You can move now.”

****

Sherlock's ankles are crossed behind him, his arms around him, pulling him in deeper with an experimental upward thrust of his hips.

He presses another gentle kiss to his partner's shoulder and slowly begins to move. More of a gentle rocking. He's never been anyone's _first_ before, and wants to be sure he can make this good for both of them. He wants to be gentle but is pretty damn sure Sherlock won't want him treating him like glass, either. The sensation and tightness is nothing like being with a woman, and Sherlock's hardness pressing and leaking between them, and the rough, breathy panting against his hair is more arousing than it has any right to be.

He pulls back and slowly slides back in, the tight, gripping heat around him drawing out a shuddered moan.

He locks eyes with his lover, whose face has gone completely bare and open, pupils blown wide and full of trust, and begins to pick up his pace. Thrusting upward to hit a place that causes dark curls to fall back into the mattress accompanied by a low, keening whine each time he presses into it.

Sherlock meets him thrust for thrust as they find their rhythm. John's left hand reaching down to grip and stroke him as a familiar pressure builds in his own abdomen.

“J-Jawwwn _please_ , _OH_ CHRIST _FUCK!”_  comes the broken plea below as John's hand moves faster, and his cock thrusts deeper, working them both closer to the edge as he hits Sherlock's prostate again and again.

John can feel Sherlock's body tensing around him, and GOD he wants to watch every second of the man coming apart against him like this.

Sherlock stretches forward in a frantic attempt to brush their lips together in a sloppy not quite kiss, panting desperately against John's mouth.

Both of them sweaty and too far gone for words. Sherlock's hands twisting hard into the back of John's hair, pulling his head down tight against his trembling body and bucking into his fist.

The sound that rumbles from Sherlock's chest as he shouts out and goes rigid, pulsing hard and hot over John's hand and stomach, has him teetering on the edge himself. Tight muscles clamping down around John's cock have him chasing his own orgasm. With just a few thrusts, and Sherlock's name on his lips, he is falling, pulse after pulse spilling into his partner, who is still cradling his head firmly against his chest.

******

There is only the sound of labored breathing as John's full weight collapses against him. His hands still holding John's face against his heart. Fingers tangled into short silver hair.

Feeling John's fast and steady heart rate beat against his skin. Still subconsciously counting the beats.

_Alive. Breathing. Safe._

_Mine._

His own too fast pulse is thudding in John's ear as they come down together.

_Always together. Always. My John._

_*****_

He knows what he's doing. Counting again. It would be lying to say he wasn't doing the same. Here in that quiet ‘in between’ of what they just shared and what comes next.

He presses lips to the small fading scar on a pale chest - below the heart, above the liver. It should have killed him. As a doctor he knows this is fact. Being shot from that range in that part of the body easily could have, probably should have, been a death sentence. He shouldn't be here...

_But he is. No idea how, after everything, but he is here. Alive. Real. Mine._

He raises his head to watch the rise and fall of each breath. Trails his hands lightly across sharp cheekbones and tenderly over Sherlock's temple, brushing a sweaty lock of hair and a bloody long ago nightmare away with his fingers.

 _Alive. Both of us. Shouldn't be. We have almost died. We have_ **_actually_ ** _died. Both of us. We both lived. We both came back from near impossible odds. We should both be dead, several times over. There is no logic to explain away all the reasons one or both of us should not be here right now. But we are. We've had the most impossible story, culminating with the most impossible ‘here and now’._

_Because the story wasn't over..._

_We each came back for the other.  Must've done._

_Came back for this._


	22. Chapter 22

Her lilting laughter rings out in the cold January air as the ducks waddle closer to peck at the crumbled bread he has been tossing near their feet. He could have gone straight back from Molly's flat, probably should have, but instead he bundles her head to toe and has the cab drop them at the park. 

She had gazed up at him in Molly's doorway and asked with a wide eyed smile, “Go see ducks Sh’lock?”  Even the bracing cold couldn't make him deny her her favorite activity. Not with that look.

Molly had run back inside, shaking her head with a sympathetic smile, and gotten a bit of bread into a bag for them as they headed out. Now here they are. At the park, with matching windburned cheeks. Tossing bread into the water and at their feet.

_ Sherlock Holmes, consulting duck feeder. Sounds like something John would write. The things one will do out of love. Such a complicated little emotion. Yet, not at all an unpleasant one, as one not quite so rubbish big brother had once made it seem. _

He tosses out more crumbs close to her shoes, and two little ducks come up cautiously near Rosie’s feet. She claps and squeals, and he smiles at her innocent joy at such a simple thing. The ducks retreat back to the water and she turns to him all flushed faced and bright eyes.

_ Blue-green-grey with a tiny golden starburst around the pupil. John's eyes. _

“Ahgen, peas!! Ahgen ducks!”

She holds out a tiny mitten covered hand for some bread.

“Peas? ‘Osie do it? Peas...Papa?”

It's like someone hit him in the chest.  One tiny word, and suddenly the earth stops going around...whatever it is it goes around...and time grinds to a halt and its several moments before he remembers he has to breathe. Staring down at her with her expectant smile and fluttery lashes, he realizes she has no idea what she said or why his brain seems to temporarily have been kicked offline.

He has always been “Sh-Lock” or “Lock” or some slurry, jumbled baby talk variation between the two.  _ Never _ Papa. Not ever. He has never referred to himself in parental terms.  Even if he does feel and act like one, he is not her parent. The idea that she sees him as one is both humbling and terrifying.

_ What will John think? Is this a bit not good? We're together, but this, this is bigger than that. This is  _ his  _ daughter. My goddaughter. Will John smile and find it ‘cute’ or will he feel I am taking something from him? _

As tiny hands pull insistently at his coat, he realises you can't wander off into your own mind when a toddler wants something from you..

“Ducks? Peas?”

Dutifully he breaks up more bread and tosses a trail leading from the water to her feet, and hands her the rest.  As she is busy squealing at a large goose who has joined the mix of waterfowl surrounding them, he pulls out his phone.

First he snaps and sends a picture of Rosie, bundled up laughing, ducks and geese waddling around her, trying to grab bread from her hand.  

Then a straight to the point text.

**John, she called me a name that isn't mine.**

**-SH**

**John, she called me Papa.**

**-SH**

Several minutes pass and his phone pings.

**That picture is adorable :)**

Then several blips and stops and blips as another message is being typed erased and retyped before it pings again.

**Oh. Uh. Wow.**

Sherlock bounces anxiously on his toes.

_ Is that all? “Wow?” _

**John, for someone who claims to be a writer, your vocabulary could use some vast improvement.**

**-SH**

**Is this not OK? I don't quite know the proper way to handle this development.**

**-SH**

Ping

**You know I know it's you, right? You don't have to sign your name.**

Ping

**Come home for tea. I'm sure you're both freezing.**

Sherlock sighs. Why is he avoiding the question?

Ping

**And, Sherlock, it's fine. It's all fine. More than fine. Come home.**

Ping

**I’ve something I, uh, I need to give you. :) Was going to wait till tomorrow but, well, just come home, yeah? <3**

_ Tomorrow? What's tomorrow? Ohhhh. Birthday. Right. Dull. _

**Have an errand. Will be home after.**

**-SH ;)**

Ping. Ping.

**Oh my God! What the bloody hell? XD**

**Sherlock Holmes did you just use an emoticon? ;)**

He smiles, typing as he calls to Rosie, watching fondly as she waves and says “bye bye” to all her new feathery friends. He lifts her up onto one hip and they head back to the road for a cab.

Ping

**You made a winky face. ;)**

**You started it, John.**

**-SH ;)**

**What have you done to me? I am utterly disgusted at myself!**

**-SH ;)**

**I can't seem to stop, John. Help!**

**-SH ;)**

Ping

**;) What** **_haven't_ ** **I done to you? ;)**

He feels the slight flush in his ears at the insinuation.

**Really, John?**

**-SH ;)**

Ping

**;) ;) ;)**

**Please stop at once!**

**-SH ;)**

Ping

**Nope ;)**

**John.  About Rosie? Does this require discussing?**

**-SH**

Ping

**Uh, yeah, I think it might. Just a bit.**

Ping

**But, it's not bad. Just...we'll talk here? Ok?**

Ping

**Sherlock?**

Ping

**;) I <3 you**

Juvenile as it is, he locks the last message, hoping no one ever has cause to go through his phone.


	23. Chapter 23

John restlessly reshuffles the papers for the umpteenth time before putting them back in their folder, laying it on the desk again before he begins pacing the sitting room. 

Sherlock and Rosie should have been home a while ago, and he is now trying to calm his overactive anxiety.

_ What the hell is wrong with me? _ he thinks, changing direction mid-stride and heading for the kitchen worktop.  _ If there's anything an Englishman ought to know, it's how to keep calm...honestly. I shouldn't even be this bloody stressed. _

He mentally chides himself as he clicks the kettle on and sits to await the inevitable dramatic entrance of his daughter and partner. 

Barely a moment later the door downstairs clicks open. The cool winter air makes its way up into the flat as the sound of the door closing, Sherlock's footsteps on the stairs and Rosie’s babbling start his heart pounding again.

This is it. He has had this planned for a while. Everything is taken care of, every detail. Down to just a conversation and a couple of signatures...

_ Would've taken a bit longer on my own; sometimes it IS quite helpful knowing Mycroft. _

He had planned to wait for the following day, but with Rosie's adorable little slip up, today seems the better choice.  

_ Early birthday present then. _

His phone pings and he glances at the message, rolling his eyes at both the words and impeccable timing.

**Good luck, Dr Watson.**

**-MH**

At the same moment, a quite frozen looking Sherlock and an overly bundled Rosie, breeze into the room, all swirling coat and windburned cheeks.

“Da!” she squeals immediately. “ShLock an ‘Osie see ducks!”

He smiles at them as Sherlock sets her down. Tiny mittens are torn off and tossed aside as she waddles in her excess layers to John, arms outstretched, and he pulls off her winter clothes and manages a quick kiss to her head before she is running off to her small box of toys.

Sherlock is still in the doorway, fiddling with his coat pocket, before finally shrugging off the Belstaff and hanging it up, all the while eyeing John with curiosity.

_ I wonder what he thinks? Has he figured it out, or is he way off the mark? Hiding something from Sherlock for this long is not a task many could pull off… _

He backs toward the desk, reaching for the envelope, and clears his throat as a fresh jolt of panic washes over him. The kettle whistles from the kitchen, yet the sound doesn't even register.

~~~~~~~~

“John?” he questions, stepping further into the room, watching his partner’s downcast eyes and usually steady hands fiddling with a large manilla envelope.

“John? The tea? John? JOHN!”

Rosie jumps and he flinches. He moves to pat her head and quickly turns to the kitchen to shut off the shrill whistle of the kettle. He didn't intend to say it so loudly, but it seemed the only way to bring John back from wherever his mind had wandered.

He reaches for their mugs as John appears in the doorway.

“Forget the tea, Sherlock. Come back and sit down.”

“It's fine John, I've got….”

“FORGET THE SODDING TEA, SHERLOCK!”

Rosie whimpers at the volume and edge in John's voice and her small but adamant one chastises him.

“Da! No yell at Papa!”

Both men stop and turn to her on the last word.

Sherlock turns to John and finds his expression a mix of mortification and sadness.

He needs to fix this. Not really sure what's behind it, but knowing full well it was anxiety not anger that fueled it.

He takes two long steps toward her and crouches down to speak.

“It's alright little Bee, Daddy isn't yelling at,” he glances to John before finishing “...Papa.” 

He scoops her up and continues, “Let's all go sit down and we can find out what your daddy wants to say, alright?” His eyes flitting between her face and John's, which has settled into something apologetic as he turns and quietly heads out of the kitchen, while Sherlock takes Rosie and settles them both on the sofa.

_ John is anxious. This is something significant then. John never raises his voice in front of her. _

John stops in front of them, still fidgeting with that envelope.

Sherlock slides over and takes Rosie into his lap, making room for John to sit if he wants to. Eyeing the envelope with a bit of trepidation.

John sits and takes a breath, turning sideways to face them.

He doesn't have a clue what has John so anxious and he himself is getting slightly nervous about what could possibly be going on. He doesn't know and he really dislikes not knowing.

He has a suspicion it involves him. Or possibly Rosie. However, John's tense posture and previous behavior have him doubting it is anything good.

He opens his mouth to speak at the same time John does.

“John, I'm sorry if I…”

“Sherlock...you know I…”

They both stop, and chuckle a bit before Sherlock cedes and John continues, placing a hand on his knee.

_ Touching and laughing can't mean a  _ bad _ thing, can it? _

Within seconds of John's hand squeezing his leg, Rosie is tugging at his arm, pulling his hand up and placing it atop her father's.

“Hands Da-dy, no yells, peas?” her face is as deadly serious as an almost 2 year old's can be.

The anxiety seems to drain from John's face, replaced by a soft adoration, as he takes her tiny hand in his free one and Sherlock nuzzles a kiss into her hair.

“I'm sorry love, Daddy won't yell again,” then to Sherlock, “I am so sorry, Sherlock. I've quite properly cocked this up. I am such shite at this stuff.”

Sherlock squeezes his hand.

“It's alright, John,” he replies as John squeezes back. The envelope now laying across John's lap. He tilts his head toward it and continues “I can safely assume that  _ that _ has something to do with it?”

The curiosity is killing him, but obviously this means something to John so he doesn't push.

John pulls his hand back and picks up the packet, glancing down at it and back up to meet his eyes again.

“Yeah. Right. God. I wanted to do this so much better but since the first try went arse over tits - Sherlock instinctively covers Rosie’s ears and John does his best not to giggle - I...well, here. Just...take them.” His hand is trembling slightly as Sherlock takes the packet from him. “It's sort of more than one thing. Start with the first 2 when you pull them out…”

He moves Rosie off his lap to sit between them as he slowly unclasps the envelope, shooting one more curious glance at John, who just smiles, as he pulls a small pile of papers free.

He looks down, sees the top part of the form, and freezes…

~~~~~~~

John can only wait and watch Sherlock's eyes widen as he quickly scans the paper once, then twice, flipping to the second page, then back again. His eyes, liquid and soft, snap up to meet John's and a choked, “Ohhh. John...” is all that comes out when he attempts to speak.

Sherlock's eyes dart to Rosie, then John again, and back to the papers in his hands. John just catches the slight shimmer of wetness in them again before he blinks it away, and his own eyes sting a bit as his chest tightens with affection at the look of sheer awe on his partner's face.  

“John,” he all but whispers, looking down again at the papers, “John,  I - I don't know what to…are you sure?”

Rosie sits silently, looking curiously back and forth between the two men.

John reaches over her to gently push a stray hair out of his partner's eyes.  

“Course. Course I am. I mean, if you want to...God, I really hope you want to...you don't  _ have  _ to...but, after what happened - with me, well...I...I really hope you do…”

Sherlock leans in to press a just slightly lingering kiss to his mouth.

“So, this means she would be…legally...mine?”

“Yep.  _ Ours _ , Sherlock. Together. She deserves two parents to take care of her. Who love her...and each other. It's all taken care of, just needs your signature...if this is what you want, of course. Though you may want to finish the last paper. Bit important, that one. If we do this, that part...should be a joint decision.”  

Sherlock raises a curious eyebrow and settles back to pull out the third paper.

John worries his lip as Sherlock’s eyes reach the middle of the form. Watches as he reads and rereads it and hears the small hitch in his breath.

“Changing her name, John? This...this really shouldn't be my decision. It's too big. She is still your daughter…”

“Ours. Sherlock.  _ Our _ daughter, so of course you get a say in this.”

_ Oh, John.  _ He thinks. He sees what he's done. _ She will still be Rosie and still carry her mother's name - at least, the final name she chose, who she wanted to be - but deleted the connections to her past. Clever John. _

“Rosemary. It's beautiful, John.”

John licks his lips and catches Sherlock's full attention with his eyes.

“But then there was the problem of a middle name, it's... well, nothing else seemed quite  _ right,  _ y’know? So, uh, what do you think? Is it something you're ok with?”

Sherlock glances back to the paper and dips his head slightly, and John can see the one stray tear he is unable to hold back slide slowly down his cheek before he mumbles softly.

“It really  _ isn't _ a girl's name. I said that because…I needed to see you smile.”

“Sod it all if it's a girl’s name or a boy's name. It's a name, and I would be honored if you would share it with her.”

Sherlock looks to Rosie and back to John with a nod.

“It would be  _ my _ honor to share it.”

John smiles.

“Well that's settled. Rosemary Sherlock Holmes-Watson.”

“John?” Sherlock reaches over to tousle Rosie’s soft blonde curls before continuing, “I have one request, John. If you wish her to take on both our names, let her be Watson-Holmes.”

John cocks his head questioningly as Sherlock quietly goes on. “You should know by now, John, in this, as in all aspects of my life since you became part of it… as much as I can control, a Watson will  _ always _ come before a Holmes.”

The words are barely out before John has his hand on his neck, pulling him in forehead to forehead.

“Watson-Holmes then. Rosemary Sherlock Watson-Holmes. I like it”

He pulls back, tugging Rosie in between, who laughs furiously at the three way hug.

“A rose by any other name...” John continues, with another light chuckle, arms circled tightly around both his daughter and Sherlock.

“Shakespeare, John? Really?” Sherlock replies with fake annoyance.

John feigns insult.

“Come off it. As often as you like to call me a romantic, you really think I’ve never read Romeo and Juliet?” he answers with a wink.

“Very true. I would be more surprised if you hadn't.  However, that particular story is a tragedy...I - I would like ours to truly be a love story.

“It already is Sherlock. Maybe has been a bit of both, but a love story? Yeah, probably always has been.” he muses.

“Honestly,” he continues, “I am shocked Rosie was able to keep quiet as long as she did. Had planned it all for tomorrow, but,” he shrugs and leans in for a gentle kiss, “Happy early Birthday, Sherlock.”

~~~~~~~

The moment is broken by an excited squeal.

“Burfday!! Do present now Papa!”

Sherlock ruffles her curls again. “You ARE my present, little Bee,” he answers.

She giggles and shakes her head.

“No no no!! Present!! You give?” as she squirms her way out from between them and goes running. 

John looks to Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

“What's she on about?”

He feels a slight blush creep across his face and hopes John doesn't notice his stutter.

“I - I have no idea, John, toddlers are odd little…”

A blonde head pokes up beside him and with a huge smile shoves something square into his lap.

“Now present? Papa give?”

He quickly drops his arm over the small box but not fast enough that John doesn't notice.

“Papa burfday. Present. So pretty.”

John looks confused but gently corrects her. 

“Love, it's Papa’s birthday tomorrow. He GETS presents, not gives them,” though his eyes dart again to Sherlock, now blushing furiously, still trying to cover the box Rosie had brought him and knowing full well he is failing to not look downright terrified.

“Sherlock, hey, you ok? What…”

He clears his throat nervously.

_ This is not how it was meant to go. _

“Ah. Yes, though it seems, once again,  _ our _ daughter has no patience…could you, uh,” he gestures toward Rosie.

John catches on and calls her over.

“Rosie? Could you get your crayons? I think your Papa needs a picture for his birthday tomorrow.”

She takes off for her things in the corner as John watches her go.

Sherlock takes a breath and moves.

_ Now. It has to be now.   _

John's attention jerks back as he feels him slide off the sofa to sit on his knees between his legs, the position putting him slightly lower than John. He gently rests both hands on John's thighs.

“Sher…?” John begins to question.

“John,” his voice a bit shaky and betraying his anxiety, “I had meant to...wanted to...” he dips his head and sighs before looking back up into John's curious dark blue eyes.

“This was meant to go a bit differently. Something special...perfect...you deserve that much.”

John's eyes widen and Sherlock sees understanding flash over his features as he takes both of Sherlock's hands in his own.

“Sherlock…”

“No. John. Please? Just let me say this?”

John's eyes soften and he goes quiet, but tightens his grip on his partner's hands.

“John. I had intended to make this perfect. Something I myself can never be. I am not well versed in sentiment or emotion. All I know I have learned from you, with you. To be honest, you deserve better. However, instead of pursuing that, you have chosen to make a life, here, with me. A home. You have not only given me your affection, but a family, a reason to live...to be better. You are trusting me to raise a child beside you.

“For reasons I will never quite understand, you've always been a mystery to me, John, in a world of open books. Your loyalty to me, your companionship and the reasons you give them, is something that remains a case I may never solve. Something of which I still find myself quite undeserving.

“There is nothing I wouldn't give you, nothing more I have to give. You had my heart before I was aware I possessed one. I have given my life for you and I would again…” his voice cracks and he glances away, closing his eyes for a moment before looking up again as gentle hands push him back and John slides onto the floor in front of him, not releasing his hands but kneeling in front of him, bringing them closer to eye level.

“Sherlock,” John's voice is both soft and husky, “I don't want you to give your life  _ for _ me. Not again...not ever. You've given up more for my sake than I’ve ever deserved, and, whether you believe it or not, you are more selfless and have a bigger heart than anyone I’ve ever known. You just don't see it in yourself.

“There is just one thing I want from you, yeah? Stop trying to give your life for me Sherlock; what I want is for you to give your life  _ to  _ me.  _ This _ , what we have, what we've been through and what we've become. Who you are, just the way you are - that's all I ever want from you.”

He opens his mouth to speak, but John isn't finished and cuts him off with one word.

“Yes.”  

Thrown off his guard he manages a properly confused, “Yes what?”

John smiles.

“You're asking and the answer is yes”

“John. You should not be accepting anything before you hear all that I have to say.”

“I don't need to hear anymore, Sherlock, there is nothing I don't already know.”

“There are things I haven't said.”

“Well, then, I've a lifetime ahead to listen to all of them. There's only one thing left for you to say right now.”

John's eyes are holding his, his smile reaching the corners. A smile he never wants to live without.

He frees one hand from John's and pulls the small black box from his pocket. Flicking it open to hold in front of himself. A simple gold band against black velvet.

“John Watson, I vow to spend all my days giving all of myself, and the rest of my life,  _ to _ you. Will you give  _ yours _ to me?”

John's smile grows wider as he pulls them both up off the floor and runs a hand gently down his cheek.

“You've already had it for ages now, Sherlock,” he answers softly. “Yes.”

He takes the ring out and turns it sideways for John to see the underside as he slides it onto his hand, before being tackle-kissed onto the sofa with more joy and love than he ever imagined being capable of giving  _ or _ receiving.

The engraving along the inside: “Just the two of us, against the rest of the world.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was only one POV that seemed right for this chapter...

**January 29th, One year later**

 

Sitting between her papa and Uncle My, she tugs at the bow in her hair in irritation. 

“Is itchy Papa!”

Sherlock gently straightens the errant hair clip and kneels in front of her.

“It's just for a little while, Rosie-Bee. You're lovely. Your daddy will be so happy if you leave it in.”

She huffs in frustration then catches sight of herself in the mirror. Smiling and doing little spins to see her lacy white dress twirl.

“Ok Papa. I make Daddy happy.”

She watches as Uncle My stands and rests a hand on Papa's shoulder. They say grown up things and he leaves.

Uncle My is important. He has to talk at the front of the room. She knows. They practiced this. She has to do an important thing too, they said. She has to walk with Papa to Daddy. She has to be quiet and behave. She can do that. She practiced. She also has to hold the pretty rings and not drop them. The rings are special. They mean family. Her family. Papa and Daddy and Rosie.

Daddy and Papa will say some words, and then they will be  _ married.  _ She doesn't know what that means exactly except it means they will all be together for always.

She stops twirling as some music starts and Papa takes her hand.

“Ready Bee?”

“I ready. I do good and be quiet!”

Together, they walk out hand in hand. People are watching. Some people are crying. Nana Hudson is crying. Molly is crying. Rosie doesn't understand. This is happy. Not sad?

They make it to the front and Daddy is there and he looks so happy. She goes to stand next to Uncle Greg, behind Papa, Just like they practiced.

Uncle My says lots of his grown up things. Daddy and Papa answer him, and Daddy has wet eyes now too, but is still smiling. She can't see Papa's face and wonders if he has happy crying too?

Then it’s her turn. She has to do it good. Uncle My bends down and asks for the rings and Uncle Greg unties them from the soft pillow she is holding and places them in her hand. She gives them to Uncle My and quietly goes back to her spot.

She knows she did a good job and smiles.

She watches Daddy put his ring on Papa and say soft things. Then Papa does the same.

Uncle My starts to say something and Daddy stops him and calls to her. Uncle Greg nods and gives her a little push. She goes to stand between them both. This was  _ not _ in practice. But Rosie is a good girl and will be very quiet. Daddy reaches in his pocket and pulls out a pretty yellow box and hands it to her.

She is confused but opens it. Inside is a shiny necklace with two sparkly letters. She knows her letters. There is a W and an H. Papa takes the necklace and clasps it around her neck as they both lean in to kiss her cheeks. She feels special and she got a present too!

Papa directs her back to her place and she stands playing with the two pretty letters as Uncle My says another thing. She looks up as everyone claps and Papa and Daddy are kissing and music is playing and she claps too.

It's time to leave now. They practiced this too.

Papa takes one hand and Daddy the other and they walk back out the way they came in. All the people clap. 

This is the end part. This, they told her, this means they are family forever and they all have the same name now. Her name. 

Rosie’s family. Sherlock and John and Rosie Watson-Holmes. 


	25. Epilogue: The Game is Never Over

**The Game is Never Over**

The hem of a long wool coat is dramatically flipped out of the way as delicate hands rove over the body in front of them.

“Obvious,” comes the clipped response, the accompanying eye roll nearly audible, when the examination is complete.

“Absolutely transparent,” a deep baritone agrees.

Gold-flecked dark blue eyes meet pale seaglass green ones, and they both erupt in a shared giggle.

The short blonde stands and brushes an errant curl from her face, turning to the flustered young man her uncle is mentoring.

“Daniel…” she begins

“David” Greg corrects, with a long suffering sigh.

“ _ Whatever, _ ” she replies and proceeds to expertly rattle off every reason and motive as to why the woman's lover had killed her and how.

Sherlock is positively beaming at her.

 _Like she is the sun in the center of_ _his solar system_ , John muses.

She gets it all right, misses nothing.  

John has just been watching in awe. It is a thing of beauty to witness. Like watching art being created. She truly is amazing.  

She somehow possesses every bit as much brilliance as Sherlock (with the strong will and self-confidence of her mother thrown in), and has a nurturing, fiercely loyal and protective streak that he knows comes from him.

All the best bits of both nature and nurture had combined in their daughter, Sherlock had once said.

Oh, he had tried at first to shelter her from their work. From crime scenes and danger and dead bodies. However ,she was always extremely headstrong and determined and just way too damned smart for that.

She was twelve the first time she snuck past the yellow tape of a crime scene on her own. Stopping her after that was near impossible. She was barely fourteen the first time he lost the battle completely and Sherlock had brought her along on a case on purpose. Even that young she never balked at trips to the morgue or blood or touching corpses.

By sixteen she was fast becoming a deduction machine, able to follow her father's rapid fire speech and come to the correct conclusions on her own. She spent an almost alarming amount of time after school with her face pressed to the second microscope occupying the kitchen table, hands usually wrist deep in body parts, mould, or other unsavory things.

Even Mycroft had been impressed by her cleverness and her ability to read people and situations as a young child, and that in itself said a lot.

Her teenage flippancy came in handy when some of the yarders would object to a  _ child  _ at a crime scene. Her tone as flat and unaffected as Sherlock's. Not her true personality, but a mask she can pull on quickly and efficiently enough to stop even the strongest criticism with a glare.

It's just as incredible to watch her now (eighteen years old, and working her first real case) _ , _ as it was the first night he met his husband. Her ability to see the truth through any lie. To catch the details others easily miss, and all with an air of intelligent confidence that leaves others wide eyed and baffled.

Watching them together, Sherlock teaching her and coaxing and praising her is a memory he will treasure always. He has learned quite a bit of the skills of deduction over the years, but he is nowhere near this level. It never bothers him. He is still the “blogger”, chronicling their adventures together, and now adding in hers as well. He has always been the story teller and now there is just that much more story to write.

Technology is getting a bit beyond him though, and she is right there to help him with that, too. Only slightly annoyed with how  _ slow _ he is to catch on but always behind him with her head on his shoulder and a quick kiss on the cheek when she knows he's got a handle on whatever she has taught him. For all the years he spent being, well, emotionally  _ blocked _ , she helped changed all that. Sherlock too. She brought out all the good in both of them (amplified it, even) and they have always been a very affectionate and happy little family.  

The work is what the world sees, but John has what feels like a lifetime of memories of just the three of them and their domestic life behind the doors of 221b. Building their life. Watching her grow. Becoming the kind of family he had once never really imagined being part of.  

He sighs. Baker Street. Home. Yet, they have discussed retiring. Moving. Maybe not quite yet, but soon. They are getting older and the physicality of cases is getting harder on them both, even if Sherlock won't yet admit it.

Mrs. Hudson had passed several years back, bless her beautiful tolerant soul. She had not only left  _ all _ her assets to them, but also all of the building to them in her will. All of 221 was theirs. A source of income in the future, she had written, not that that bit matters much. It was the sentiment behind the gesture.

For now flat A remains mostly untouched, in memory of the woman they both loved as a second mother. Flat C has become a full working lab, and B, well, B is still  _ home _ .

Soon he thinks, it will all go to her. 221B was meant to be occupied by a Watson and a Holmes; it is what Martha wanted.

Funny, life is. He had come there, all those years ago, broken and alone, needing a place to live and a flatmate to share expenses...instead he found a purpose, and a life; a family and a  soulmate.

They had laughed and fought and nearly died once in that apartment. They came together and fell apart; rebuilt the place and themselves - found each other again. Raised a daughter and built a life together all in that scruffy little flat. He intends for it to stay her home, even when they move on.  

He is fairly sure she will eventually take in Greg and Mycroft’s daughter (bless Molly's selfless heart for the help on that one. Oh, but that's another story.), to share and help run both the building and The Work.

The two cousins, just a few years off in age, are inseparable friends. Always together.  Both brilliant in their own way. One short one tall. One loud one quiet. Two sides of the same coin. A Watson and a Holmes.

She and the younger fair skinned ginger would take over where they leave off when they head to Sussex. Where they always say they will go. Near the sea. Where John will sit on the beaches and write their stories into a proper book, while Sherlock tends to the bees he knows he so desperately wants. Not an ending. No. A beautiful new chapter for all of them.  

He watches her, smiling, her whole aura shining in this moment: all bright eyes, wind blown hair and confidence. Coat collar flipped up against the cold. (“ _ Cool  _ is NOT a word people use anymore  _ Dad!”) _

A shorter mimic of her other father both in dress and demeanor.

The memories flood over him. A long ago phrase on a windy tarmac echoing in his mind.

_ The game is never over, John. But there may be some new players now, and that's OK.   _

He jolts himself from his little reverie as a young copper cautiously taps his shoulder.

“You're Doctor John Watson, right? Is she your daughter, sir?”

“Watson- _ Holmes,”  _  he corrects, “yeah, she is  _ ours. Sherlock's _ and mine _.” _

He doesn't balk at the fact that she has two fathers. The world, it seems, is a far better and more tolerant place these days, and she is lucky for that. Having two fathers  _ and  _ two uncles, as well!

_ “ _ Is she thinking of joining the Met, sir? She's quite amazing!” he continues, eyes never leaving his daughter's animated form as she runs down the case details to the overwhelmed DI in training.

John smirks as he catches the unmasked interest in the young man's praise. Not so very different from his own, for his own consulting detective, so many years ago.

_ And still. He is still incredible. And brilliant. And amazing.  _

“No, son, she is something else completely,” he says, grinning as he pulls a card from his pocket and handing it to the obviously besotted young man. He just had them printed **,** hadn't even shown her yet, but he knows both she and Sherlock will love them. 

He hears the young man next to him reading aloud.

“‘ _ Rosemary Sherlock Watson-Holmes. Consulting Detective’... _ is that a real thing?” he asks, glancing up at John.

“It is,” John replies with a loving look towards his daughter and his husband - his  _ family _ , “has been for a long time now, but like I said, mate,” he continues, “it's something totally different. Special. Completely  _ unique _ and _ ,”  _ he smiles and turns his eyes from the tall greying brunette and the shorter, young blonde to finish, “there are only  _ two  _ of them in the whole world.”  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank all my readers. You have been amazing and patient and you made me want to write more. 
> 
> My first adventure with a full chapter fic, that started way back in February and i was so nervous putting it up. It has far exceeded anything i expected and then some. So to all of you readers: Thank You. :)
> 
> To Englandwouldfalljohn(theladyamalthea) my Beta...who has become my very best friend. Thank you for all the time and effort, even in what was such a hectic year for you, that you put into making this work. For not only editing- but being there and being supportive and just being a friend. I am so so glad we met. I would not have started writing without you. Nor would this fic ever have happened or become what it is. You deserve so much more credit than i know how to put words to. Thank you! 
> 
> Also to everyone else who offered advice, support, help and to all the amazing artists who made work for this : i thank you too. You are all appreciated more than you know!!


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